The morning light streamed through the dirty, cracked windows of the junkyard. Dust floated in the air, illuminated by the golden glow of sunrise as Zane stirred on the battered couch. His body was a canvas of bruises and burns, and every small movement sent a wave of pain coursing through him.

He groaned softly, cracking an eye open, only to find Kira sitting nearby, wrapping a fresh bandage around his arm.

“Take it easy,” she said without looking at him. “Don’t move too much, or I might have to staple you to the cushions.”

Zane let out a low groan. “Ugh… am I dead, or did someone drag me into the cheapest hospital in town?”

Kira glanced over, unimpressed. “Wow. You really know how to show gratitude.”

“Well, you don’t exactly scream Florence Nightingale, but here we are.”

She tugged the bandage a bit tighter in response. He winced.

“Ouch,” Zane muttered. “Name’s Zane, by the way. Occasional human lightning rod.”

Kira sat back, peeling off the latex gloves she’d somehow acquired. “Kira. Amateur lifesaver. And you’re in my hideout,” she said, tying off the wrap. “Technically, you broke in. I just decided not to let you die on my carpet. It already sheds enough.”

Zane glanced around at the maze of rusted parts, oily rags, and a suspiciously large number of empty ramen cups. “Wow. Cozy. Like a garage threw up on a haunted antique store.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response.

He rubbed his temple. “So… Kira? You rescue random unconscious strangers often, or am I just lucky?”

“Depends,” she said. “Are you always this annoying when half-dead?”

He gave her a lopsided smile. “Only when the nurse has an adjustable wrench collection.”

Kira rolled her eyes and stood, brushing her hands on her jeans. “You used Essence, by the way. Anything you want to share?”

Zane blinked. “Is that… some kind of off-brand spirit juice? Maybe a limited edition Red Bull?”

She actually smiled at that. “You are a comedian, aren’t you? No. It’s what lit you up back there. You pulled too much, too fast. Almost melted your own insides.”

“Right.” He sighed, trying to sit up straighter. “Guess I missed the ‘Handle With Care’ label. Care to explain a bit more?”

Kira leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Essence is what’s left when everything else burns off. Your fear. Your pain. Your skin sometimes. It’s you—raw and ugly and honest. Most people never tap into it. The ones who do… usually don’t live long.”

Zane stared at her. “…Yikes.”

He let that settle for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. “Okay, serious question. How do you know all this?”

Kira didn’t answer immediately. She just walked over to a rusted shelf and grabbed a bottle of water, tossing it to him.

“I have my secrets. Also, I know what happens when people like you get curious.”

Zane caught the bottle with a wince. “People like me?”

“Idiots with potential?” she said simply.

He took a sip, then glanced at his phone on the nearby table. Fourteen messages. All from Kimiko. One in all caps.

“Oh crap,” he muttered. “How am I supposed to explain her?”

“Girlfriend?” Kira asked, feigning disinterest.

“Best friend,” he muttered. “Maybe soon-to-be-ex-friend if I keep ghosting her.”

“Ooooh. Drama.” She smirked. “Should I be worried?”

“About what?” Zane asked curiously while checking his phone.

“That you’re into loud girls who threaten you with odd food and emotional attachments.”

Zane smirked. “That oddly specific?”

“Just a guess.” Kira grinned.

“You said you’ve seen this power before. Essence,” he said slowly. “So… maybe it wouldn’t be the worst idea if you tagged along. At least until I figure out what the hell I’m doing.”

Her brow lifted. “Interesting way of asking me out?”

“It’s my way of saying you’re either my best shot at staying alive—or the scariest rebound in history. Either way, you’re on the train.”

Kira’s smirk returned. “Fair, but I don’t like the whole sidekick idea.”

Zane shrugged. “Perfect. Cuz I’m not great with authority anyway.”

She grabbed her jacket off a hook and headed for the door. “You coming, lightning boy?”

Zane stared at the sunlight bleeding through the open door. Then he stood, his legs still shaky.

As he stepped past her, Kira added, “Try not to bleed on my seats. They’re vintage.”

“No promises,” Zane muttered. “But I’ll try.”

And with that, they vanished into the rusted light of morning—two broken things, stitched together by fate, sarcasm, and something far more dangerous neither of them had yet to name.