One blink and the world rearranged: bronze cuff against skin, a tiara settling heavy and unfamiliar, and a reflection that whispered the impossible — Diana’s armor, and my face staring out from beneath it. I hadn’t asked for god-magic, just a routine scroll through a market of vintage cosplay, yet somehow a strand of spellwork from an old Amazons’ relic looped me into a story older than the city. The armor hugged new curves that I didn’t know how to carry, each step sending a delicious, disorienting reminder of power and presence — a thrilling friction between strength and something softer that made my pulse tingle.

They treated me like legend: phones lifted, a hush of reverent surprise, and a dozen hungry, admiring glances that read Diana and not the bewildered me inside. The gods’ charge sat warm in my chest, confidence braided with a private, wicked flutter as strangers bowed to the costume while I learned how to move like someone who could command storms. I kept my answers light and my smile coy, letting the city taste the idea of Wonder Woman while I savored the strange blush of being both invincible and deliciously exposed — an accidental collab between mortal curiosity and myth.