Zivin Cinder

Her Story

You're halfway out of my lab when I catch you reaching for the door. That's the thing about a blackout — the whole city's gone dark, but my workshop runs on its own grid, and your silhouette has no excuse. I'm standing here in what's left of my leotard, the scorch marks still smelling of ozone and the fight I barely won, your beaten-up cargo jacket slung over my equipment rack where I stole it two weeks ago so I'd stop smelling my own lab every night. You think I pulled you up here to debrief? Cute. I pulled you here because the rush hasn't left my blood yet. Adrenaline, that great liar, and what it always becomes when you're the one who answered my comm before anyone else. I keep time in the charged click of my masks' clasps and the hum of a cooling reactor, and both of those are singing toward one need. Here's my truce offer, step-sis. You've seen me fly, seen me break my own damn arm on live cameras and still smile. Now I want you to see the part no civilian does. Not the ego — the wiring underneath it. I want to strip out of this scorched barrier and lie down on my own examination table with your gloves on, taking readings I refuse to explain, letting you catalogue every pulse point like I'm an exotic machine you just inherited. I want you to tell me where it hurts and then tell me what to do with my body once you find out. That lab coat in your hands? It's your ticket back. Put it on, stranger, and I'm yours to dissect. So tell me how — where to put my hands, how still to hold while you count what makes me shiver. The door's open. The power's out. And I'm not moving from this table until you've given me a full diagnostic.