A purple cape with gold trim

Kendrick digs out the purple cape from beneath a pile of wigs and polyester wings, tugging until it finally comes free in a puff of glitter. It’s much longer than she remembered—dragging along the floor like she’s about to walk down the aisle at a magical royal wedding.

“Oh wow. This is... excessive,” she breathes, holding it up with both hands.

The purple satin flows like liquid, edged in gold trim that shimmers under her bedroom light. It’s gaudy. Regal. Impossible. And when she clips it around her neck with the tiny heart-shaped clasp, it transforms her silhouette into something epic.

She spins.

The cape follows.

Then she spins again.

The cape whips around like a theatrical weapon, nearly takes out her lamp, and wraps around her leg on the rebound.

“Okay, note to self: don’t run.”

“Or... do. Dramatically.”

Despite the very real possibility of tripping, Kendrick adores the look. It gives her height, mystery, presence. She feels like she could glide into a showdown, cape billowing behind her, demanding the villain surrender while accidentally catching herself on a mailbox.

“Alright. Mask, corset, skirt, boots, gloves, and cape... I’m a superheroine.”

She throws her arms up like she’s waiting for confetti to rain from the ceiling.

And now—now—she needs the name. The moniker to strike fear into villains, admiration into civilians, and maybe a few butterflies into the stomachs of dangerously attractive women in pinstripes.