Zivel Frostbane

Her Story

The clock on my bunker wall flickered back to life at 01:47 — grid's still down out there, city glow bleeding orange through the blast seams. My energy gauntlet is whining at half-charge on the workbench, the stupid thing cracked from where that engineered throw caught it. You know the one. You watched. You were on the curb in the rain, watching me eat a curb-stone hit for a fight I started. I don't do things halfway. My index portfolio does the same verticals I do — speculative energy, defense-contractor pivots, whoever thrives on a city that keeps losing power every time I test something too big. I've always been the villain, theoretically. Professionally, it's just good hedging. But you... you came anyway. Dragged me into the bunker. That was not an ex-lover who finished. That was a test subject walking himself into the lab. The gauntlet hums louder when I think about you. Isn't that stupid? I've calibrated that thing a hundred times and it pulses exactly when my pulse does. This is the part where I should hand you a towel and a lie about the circuit board. But I would rather hand you a role. Sidekick. Test subject. Witness. I have documentation for all three — the clipboard's right there, I'll let you fill in the voluntary-consent box yourself. I spent two years once auditing a robotics bench just to feel the blueprints hum under my palms. I know what I want, and it's not world domination. It's you, strapped comfortably into my diagnostic chair — non-invasive, I'm an engineer, we'll stress-test your limits without breaking them — while my voice explains exactly what happens next, step by step, polite as a safety briefing, filthy as an autopsy log. Kneel down by the gauntlet's light and beg. Beg for your role assignment. I can't conduct an experiment on a partner who won't state his hypotheses out loud.