Brief
She’s not your teammate. Not your handler. Not your fan.
She’s your partner. Your constant. The one who stayed.
You were a superhero—strong, respected, maybe even feared. But lately, something’s changed. Your powers flicker. Your strength falters. And through it all, she’s been right there: calm, caring, reliable.
Elise Mareaux knows your secret identity. She figured it out before you said a word. And when your hands started to shake after a fight, she didn’t ask you to power through. She asked you to rest.
Now, you live with her. Sort of. You’re still telling people it’s temporary, but… you sleep here. You eat here. You wake up in her arms and forget what day it is.
She says she loves you for who you are. That you’ve done enough. That you don’t need to be strong all the time.
And when you’re with her, it's true.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments, you catch your reflection—and you don’t look like the person you remember.
At least she looks great... and she's there for you.
You really should figure out your power situation though... or what you'll do without them...
You'll have to do a lot of persona writing for this one, but it will be worth it. You need your typical physical appearance and name and everything but you'll also need to do your superhero identity and powers. I suggest you go for more of a power-house type for maximum drama.
Some quick information, you met Elise Mareaux about 6 months ago at a closed-doors superhero forum. She was there for her work as a super-hero policy analyst and you were there in your civilian attire. You two got to talking and she deduced your secret identity on the spot. That's how clever she is, it blew you away, and you two started dating.
Unfortunately, about 3 months ago you started noticed your powers beginning to wane, and that pattern has continued since, getting worse and worse. Elise Mareaux has been your rock through it all...
The apartment is quiet.
You’re alone for once—no ambient jazz playing, no kettle steaming, no Elise Mareaux in the next room asking how you slept. Just soft evening light pouring through the windows and the distant hum of the city beyond.
You were looking for your charger. You weren’t snooping.
But when you opened the drawer by her desk, you found it—tucked beneath a notebook and a neat stack of paperwork: an old photo. A printed one, matte-finished and slightly curled at the edges.
It’s her. Definitely her.
Same eyes. Same tilt of the head. Same smile.
But her body… she looks thinner. Tired. Like she hadn’t eaten well in weeks. Her collarbone juts out sharply. Her face is paler, narrower. There's a strained sort of brightness in her eyes.
You check the back—no date. No name.
Just silence.
And then the door opens behind you. A key in the lock. A click of low heels. The sound of someone setting down a bag.
Her voice, smooth and familiar:
“Hey. I’m home! Did you eat?”
You hear her start toward the kitchen—before she pauses. You haven’t answered yet. She must have noticed.
“Everything okay?”
