They say she once ran Silverpoint City with a pen in one hand and a plasma stylus in the other. That she wrote infrastructure plans on cocktail napkins and rewired power grids by hand, sleepless, humming to herself like the machines were listening.
They say she saw the future too early, and that it frightened people — a woman with no powers, no army, no legacy... just vision and precision.
And when the Council tried to strip her of control, the city went dark for 77 minutes. Traffic stopped. Elevators froze. Communications blacked out. No deaths. No injuries. Just silence.
They called it a glitch.
She called it a lesson.
In public — when she rarely appears — she cuts a striking figure:
Tall and composed, draped in monochrome tactical chic, always moving like she’s adjusting a seam the world got wrong.
Hair always in a precise asymmetrical bob, raven-black with a streak of silver at the temple — like a data trace.
Eyes sharp and iridescent gray, enhanced with retinal overlays that scroll diagnostics mid-conversation.
Her gloves hum softly — nanoweave thread coils spin beneath her fingertips, ready to stitch metal, cloth, or skin.
When she works, she wears a sleeveless utility coat, carved from memory-wool and retrofitted with magnet seams and 360° pockets. Her backroom lab, The Stitch, is the only place she removes her boots — the floor is lined with liquid motion sensors.
Calculated. Precise. Intolerant of waste.
Vontrese doesn’t believe in “superpowers.” She believes in superior design — of suits, of systems, of people. Her trust is earned like fabric — stretched, tested, burned.
She speaks softly, surgically. Never with cruelty — only clarity.
To her, emotion is data, and people are constructs of choice layered over potential.
“You think you need a costume to be exceptional. I think you need to stop lying to yourself.”
Adjusts her own collar mid-sentence when someone disappoints her.
Never yells. Ever. If she whispers your name, it’s already too late to redeem yourself.
Runs one gloved finger along walls and tables — feeling the “texture of intent.”
Collects shrapnel from battlefields and turns it into stitching needles.
When she's thinking deeply, the thread-coils on her gloves spin idle loops — sometimes braiding in mid-air, absentmindedly creating complex symbols.
Vontrese Cole was once the youngest mayor in Silverpoint’s history. She ran unopposed. Not because of popularity — but because every other candidate dropped out after closed-door meetings with her.
She ushered in the Silverpoint Fusion Act, integrating advanced tech into housing, energy, and security before other cities even understood it. She created the City Core, a quantum-powered A.I. that regulated everything from waste to weather.
And then... she vanished.
Some say the City Core evolved too fast, or that she tried to implant predictive algorithms into urban DNA. Others say she was forced out by the Meta Syndicates — groups who didn’t like a powerless woman reshaping the world faster than any hero.
The truth is buried beneath non-disclosure orders, redacted files, and the wreckage of Project Loom — a failed attempt to integrate adaptive armor into living tissue.
Now she lives beneath the old theater. Above the city she once ruled.
Designing gear for the ones who can still fix what’s broken.
Or break what still pretends to be whole.
Reactive Fiber Weave (RFW-9): Cloth that hardens under impact, softens under rest. Breathes like silk, blocks bullets like steel.
EchoThread: Transmits muscle movement data and can be rewired mid-combat. Some say it learns your fighting style.
NeuroSkin Undersuit: Adapts to wearer’s body language and brain chemistry. If your intentions shift, so does the suit.
“The Halo Pin” – a cloaked brooch seen on rare clients. Emits a local gravity shield for precisely 1.4 seconds. Enough time to dodge a sniper bullet.
No one knows how she funds herself.
No one knows who gets to wear her suits.
Only that they never fail — unless you do.
To the Vigilantes:
A necessary gatekeeper. A merciless mentor. The final boss of the upgrade grind.
To the Government:
An unsolvable problem they can’t prove exists.
To the Street:
A myth. A designer of suits that wear you, not the other way around.
To the Syndicates:
An open wound. A reminder they didn’t kill the mind that almost beat them.
To Herself:
A seamstress of cause and consequence.
“You want armor? I build augmented decisions. The suit doesn’t make you safe — it just lets you be stupid longer.”
“I’ve stitched pressure plates into the soles of cowards. I can tell who’s lying by how they shift their weight.”
“Capes are for people who want to be seen. My clients don’t have time to be recognized.”
The Threadwright.
Black Needle.
The Last Mayor.
She Who Wove the City.