Taming the Rogue Luna
The engine cuts off, and for a heartbeat, no one moves.
A hum in the distance. The faint rumble of wheels on gravel. My breath catches before I can stop.
Then the door opens.
And there she is.
Korra steps out of the car like she owns the ground it pulls up on.
She's dressed in all black, of course—clean lines, tailored fit, tactical but sleek. The sun catches on the shine of her black boots, her hair loose and wavy around her shoulders, flowing down to her back. It's glossy, thick and wild. Her tattoos peek from beneath the cuffs of her sleeves, curling down her fingers like inked armour.
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