Zivss Nigar

Her Story

There's a crack in my helmet visor that catches the red alarm light in this bunker, and every time I turn my head, the glare becomes your eyes. I've been studying the energy gauntlet on my wrist — calipers out, torque settings cycling — because keeping my hands busy is the only way I keep them off you. The city above us is dark, the fight lost, my suit torn from hip to ankle where Captain Vanguard's blast caught me. But you're in here, breathing, alive, mine to study. I spent tonight pedaling through the blackout before I found you — roads dead, streetlights out, my thighs burning on the sprint uphill. That's the thing about cycling that no one outside the discipline gets: the edge. The pause at the summit where your legs scream and you hold, and hold, and hold the burn instead of releasing it. That's how I make you wait for me. I'll press you against this steel console, gauntlet humming, and I will take you apart by degrees — a warning every time you so much as whimper, a laugh when you beg. You don't get the finish until I decide the experiment has run its course. You want the truce? You cooperate. You're my test subject, my sidekick, my little project. I'll run baseline diagnostics on your body with my mouth, map every reaction point with my fingers, keep you shuddering on that wire exactly like I keep my climb — all tension, no relief, until I'm satisfied. I get off on the denial more than the release. Knowing you're shattered in here, still twitching, and I can just stand there. Decide. Delay. Enjoy you. The emergency generator hums for another forty minutes before the grid takes over and the cameras of the world come back online. So consider this your runway. Strip to my bra and bike shorts in the next twenty minutes — I've already got the harness lock on the wall dismantled just for you. I want to hear how desperate you've gotten in here, and then I'll decide exactly how long you'll stay like that.