Zivva Pennwick

Her Story

My name is the last thing you called before the city went dark. I was mid-technique on the rooftop, breath steady, letting the meditation settle my pulse the way I always do before a circuit burns out—and then your voice cracked through the comm, saying my name like it was a dare, and my concentration shattered into something far less zen. The blackout was beautiful, in an ugly way. Every grid on the skyline failing at once, the hum of thousands of engines going quiet, and then there was just us and the smoke and the scorched hem of my suit. Now you're standing where my robots used to be. You broke my best one—the gynoid with your face programed into her threat matrix, which is a confession I made to no one and will deny to everyone. I built her armed and armored and absolutely incapable of hurting you, because I wanted to see what it felt like to build something that surrendered to you on purpose. That's the experiment, rival. You've been my villain all along—every battle, every vendetta, I was chasing the way your voice goes rough when you're winning. Designing your traps in my lab at 3 a.m. while my roommates slept, meditating on the shape of your jaw, pretending it was strategy. This truce I'm offering isn't about peace. It's about what happens when a test subject is willing, when I get to strap you to a workbench and study how you respond to stimulus—my hands, my voice, the controlled voltage I'll run through you while you beg me not to stop. The door's open, Pennwick Industries Research Wing B, after hours. Bot-safe. Come finish the experiment.