### **ZEKO SUPER**
**Pilot Chapter: The Brightness and the Shadow**
The hum of Zeko City was a constant symphony. Advertising holograms flashed in vibrant colors between skyscrapers that seemed to touch the sky, and aerial vehicle traffic formed rivers of light over the streets. But that day, the symphony was broken by a sharp dissonance: the wail of sirens approaching Zeko Central Bank, the financial heart of the metropolis.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of fear and the metallic gleam of weapons. Four men, wearing black masks and tactical vests, held hostages kneeling on the cold marble floor. The leader, a colossus with a grotesque scar that split his eyebrow, pressed the machine gun against the head of a pale cashier.
— Fill your suitcases with gold or these idiots will turn into sieve! Fast! — he growled, his voice echoing in the main hall.
The hostages' sobs were the only response until a new sound emerged. It wasn't a siren, nor a scream. It was an electronic hum, low and hypnotic, like the engine of a luxury car purring. The afternoon sunlight, which streamed in through a shattered window, seemed to focus, and an ethereal silhouette floated in, hovering over the chaos.
It was Belka Zatchet. Her uniform was a statement of power: a neon purple corduroy dress, completely transparent, that fit her body perfectly. Golden threads, fine as hair, ran through the fabric, pulsing with a soft light, like living veins. Near-silent micro-motors hum subtly, keeping every fold and fit impeccable. She was the embodiment of "apocalyptic chic"—elegant, lethal, and unattainable.
— Well, well... — his voice, soft as velvet, echoed with a slight digital reverb, filling the space. — Packs of dirty rats in a temple of wealth. This doesn't fit with the look of the city.
The bandits turned, weapons raised. The leader let out a nervous laugh.
—Who the hell are you? The fashionable cleaning lady?
Belka tilted her head, and the golden threads on her dress glowed more brightly. She extended a hand, and the air around her began to **vibrate**. A wave of neon purple energy erupted from the fabric, an aesthetic glitch in reality itself.
The first bandit fired. The bullets didn't hit her. They stopped in mid-air, mere inches from her, dissolving into **purple neon glows and floating golden threads**, like luxurious confetti. The man screamed, not in pain, in pure bewilderment, as his entire body collapsed. His weapon, his clothes, his very flesh dissolved into a floating conceptual sculpture—a statue of neon and gold, frozen in time, completely harmless.
— What... is this... art?! — he laughed hysterically before dissolving completely.
The other bandits took off in panic. Belka twirled gracefully, her dress billowing like a second skin. Their every shot, their every movement, was absorbed and neutralized by the energy wave. One by one, they transformed. The leader turned into a golden statue amid a frozen scream, his body motionless in a ridiculous pose of threat. The hostages gasped, eyes wide, fear being replaced by surreal astonishment.
Belka smiled, a mischievous gleam in her eyes, as if she were addressing an invisible audience.
— Aesthetic deconstruction. Because even crime deserves a glow-up... temporary.
The energy dissipated. Thirty seconds passed. The neon and gold sculptures crumbled, and the four bandits fell to the ground like rag dolls, dazed, naked, with only a few golden wisps clinging to their skin. The police burst through the door, handcuffing the disoriented criminals.
A female hostage, with tears streaming down her face, began to applaud.
— You saved us all! Super Zeko!
The name stuck. The crowd outside erupted in cheers as Belka landed with feline grace in front of the bank, the flashes of news cameras blinding everything around her. Microphones were extended like hungry tentacles.
— Belka Zatchet, Zeko's hero! How did you do this? These bandits... they turned into neon ghosts! — shouted a reporter, pushing the others.
Belka posed, a proud smile on her face, her voice modulated with a heroic echo.
— Ah, darling, it's just a touch of Foton-Gold Textile Disruption. My uniform? It vibrates with the essence of the city — neon purple for chaos, gold for glory. I am always here to protect the citizens of Zeko. Because without style, without protection. And without me... well, imagine the apocalypse without glamour.
The crowd cheered louder. She laughed, a crystal clear, magnetic sound. Behind the radiant smile, his eyes were as cold as steel.
— And your weaknesses? Some? — asked another journalist.
— Weakness? —she winked, mischievously. — Only if someone dares to dirty my look. But who would do it perfectly?
Laughter in the press. With a final wave and a **pop of energy**, Belka took off vertically, her dress billowing like golden butterfly wings, and disappeared into the cityscape.
***
Dusk painted the sky orange and purple as Belka hovered over a dark alley on the outskirts of town. Below, the contrast was stark: the distant luxury of the skyscrapers versus the palpable squalor of the streets. She descended slowly, her immaculate uniform a perfect spot of light against the trash and mud puddles.
A child, perhaps eight years old, thin and in tattered clothes, emerged from the shadows, holding a rusty can. His eyes, hungry and full of hope, fixed on the heroine.
— Madam... superhero? — the child's voice was a trembling whisper. — Can you give me something? A coin? I saw you on the bench... you are like an angel...
Belka stopped, floating inches from the ground. The smile disappeared from his face. The golden threads on her dress flickered once, a barely noticeable warning. The child blinked back, confused.
Belka's voice was low, icy, without any heroic echo. Just pure poison.
- Angel? Honey, angels don't clean the streets of vermin like you do.
The child took a step back, eyes widening in terror. Belka held out her hand. The air vibrated again, but this time, there was no mercy. The **Textile Break** swallowed the girl. Her small body dissolves into **neon purple and gold threads**, floating for an instant like a tragic, ephemeral sculpture. A short scream was muffled by the bright glow. There was no reconstruction. The energy pulsed stronger, more cruel, completely dissolving it into particles that dissipated into the alley's wind.
Belka watched for a second, impassive. No remorse. She wiped an invisible speck off her shoulder with a finger, the micro-motors humming as they adjusted the dress back to perfection.
— One less stain on the city's canvas — she muttered to herself, with a subtle smile.
She took off again, rising into the now dark sky. The camera pulled back, revealing the empty alley. There was no body, there was no evidence, there were no witnesses. The distant echo of sirens was the only reminder that something had happened.
In Zeko, heroes shine. But the price is invisible.