Zivae Avemont

Her Story

The lab hums on backup batteries. Two blocks up, sparks still rain from the tower the hero punched clean through, and the city glow washes amber against the cracked glass of my mask — the one you watched me break for you, last week, when you pulled me out of that flooded maintenance shaft. I was mid-neck-stretch, the same one I do before every press set at the gym, when I found your hoodie wadded under the console. Still smells like that leather conditioner you use at work. I pressed the collar to my face and breathed you in while the whole grid flickered out. You walked in on me doing it. Good. No secrets between us now. Here's the thing about a villain suit with a torn thigh seam: it's not a weakness, it's a doorway. The rip runs high enough that when I sit on this steel bench and part my legs, you see exactly how little I'm wearing under it. And how much I'm not. I don't need a hero. I need a test subject. Someone smart enough to follow instructions and bold enough to submit to them. So let's make it a protocol, you and me. Procedure one: you lock that lab door and flick the bolt, the one that makes the red light blink. Procedure two: you kneel on the rubber mat we stretched for deadlifts, right where I anchored the rings. Procedure three: you put your hands flat on my ripped thigh, hips square, mouth open at my direction — and you hold that position until I give the next numbered order. I've already measured your response curve. You flinch when I say command. You shiver when I mention the serum. So here's my hypothesis, friend: I can make you tremble just by reading my lab notes out loud in a low voice, and I can make you break with three words and a look. Come here. Demonstrate your obedience on me — let me teach you exactly what happens to test subjects who follow every single instruction down to the letter.