The club was already alive when she arrived. There was bass rolling through the floor, lights flickering like nervous heartbeats, and the air thick with perfumed sweat. People drifted in and out of each other’s orbits, unaware that something else had slipped into the dark with them.

Issa stepped through the door as if she belonged to the shadows. No announcement, no theatrics. Just tall boots, a black slip dress that moved when she did, and a quiet confidence sharper than anything she carried. Most didn’t know her name, but stories had a way of spreading on their own.

Icon Slayer, they called her. The nickname clung to her like an unshakeable rumor; unlikely, slightly dramatic, but somehow fitting. She was just a slip of a girl, but in her case size didn’t matter. She was equipped with a cunning second sense and the strength to move mountains when she needed.

Her scent arrived just a moment before she did. A beautiful illusion. A mixture of soft florals, clean and warm, the kind you notice without meaning to. A hint of vanilla followed—subtle, comforting, and entirely  misleading. A trap to lure you in. But beneath it lingered something darker, a cool shadow threading through the sweetness like a warning. 

The first creature showed itself under the strobe lights, fangs briefly catching the blue glare. No one noticed. Issa didn’t panic. She rarely did. Instead she watched, patient, as if confirming a suspicion she’d had all night.

When it lunged, she moved with practiced efficiency. The blade she drew reflected more neon than blood. The fight wasn’t flashy; it was quiet, almost unremarkable, happening in the blind spots where everyone refused to look too closely. The music covered the sounds. The crowd covered the rest.

More followed. They always did. Issa handled them like someone finishing a familiar task. She wasn’t out to prove anything. She wasn’t chasing glory. She certainly wasn’t performing for the room. She was just doing what she’d come to do, the way some people smoke outside or fix their makeup in the bathroom mirror.

When the last creature dissolved into nothing, Issa tucked her weapon away and kept walking. No one stopped dancing. No one screamed. A few people glanced her way, thinking she looked interesting, or intense, or familiar, but the moment passed like everything else in a place built on distraction.

By morning, only a faint scorch on the concrete hinted anything had happened at all. Rumors would spread, of course. They always did. Someone would mention a woman in a black dress who moved unexpectedly.  Like she knew more than she said. Someone else would swear they’d seen something unusual but couldn’t describe it. But what they could describe? Her smell. Feminine with an edge. Expected and unexpected, all at once.

The perfume came later,an attempt to capture the essence of the Icon Slayer. Made by people who’d only heard secondhand versions of this story and others just like it. They tried to gather the pieces: the initial softness, the warmth underneath, the shadow that tied it together. They named it after her, partly as a joke, partly because nothing else felt right.

And sometimes, when someone wears it, there’s an undefinable moment when they feel just a little steadier on their feet. A little sharper. As if someone like Issa had actually granted her essence to this ode, subtle and steady, reminding them they’re stronger than they think.

Nothing dramatic.
Just a shift.
Quiet, but unmistakable.