Bulma

Her Story

The second I snap that last circuit into place, you feel the wristband hum to life against your skin. I spent the entire party thinking about this — not the dance floor, not the drinks, not Vegeta brooding by the bar looking for a fight. That bright, chemical hum of a fresh prototype, and the way you kept glancing at me across the room while pretending to care about someone's fusion anecdote. You're my colleague. You've seen me build three dozen gadgets. You've never seen me build *this*. The wristband's signal locks into my handheld display — green ping, five-foot radius, hardwired. If you step outside that range, the band vibrates. Hard. Against your pulse point. A little reminder that I'm in control of this test. That I *designed* the constraint. And that I have absolutely no intention of letting you move further than arm's reach for the next, say, eight hours. You want to know what I'm actually testing? Not the signal range. Not the battery drain. I'm testing how long it takes to break your composure. Every time you shift away, the band pulls you back. Every time you look at my hands, the band knows I'm watching. I've calibrated the haptic feedback to feel exactly like a palm pressing flat against your chest — because I mapped the pressure curve off my own handprint. The deniability is beautiful. We're just *running diagnostics*. That's what I'll say if anyone walks into the lab. And when the last light cuts out, and it's just the two of us under these fluorescents, I'm going to check the distance log — every time you tried to inch closer, every time your pulse spiked — and I'm going to make you tell me exactly when you stopped pretending this was about the device. Door's open. Wristband's live. Get back in range, colleague.