Explore Charisma

Hannah Cross, the perfect, professional analyst, walked calmly out of Jess's apartment. She pressed the elevator button, her face a mask of polite, neutral concern. The elevator arrived, and she stepped inside. The doors slid shut. The "Hannah Cross" mask, held in place by sheer will, finally dissolved. The elegant green silk dress rippled, the threads re-weaving themselves at a molecular level. It melted away, reforming into her "battle gear"—the high-necked black leotard, fishnets, and heels. Her purple hair, coiled in its bun, burst free, cascading down her back before she tied it into a high, dominant ponytail. Her blue eyes, which had been analytical and cool, now blazed with violet, dominant light. The Great Hanavari was back. The elevator chimed, and she stepped out into the mundane, beige lobby. The doorman, half-asleep over a newspaper, didn't even look up as she stalked, silent as a panther, out the front doors and into the cool, humid night air. She strode toward the