Morning light sliced through the junkyard like a crime scene spotlight, catching on rusted steel and shattered glass. Beautiful in a “this place might tetanus you to death” kind of way.

Zane followed behind Kira, boots crunching over debris as she weaved through the metal graveyard like she owned the place. Maybe she did. Wouldn’t surprise him. Kira had that air about her—like the world was just lucky to be allowed near her orbit.

She didn’t say much, but she didn’t have to. The silence was comfortable. Kind of. Not really. Zane’s head was still a mess, like someone had cranked the dial on his brain and left it on “existential dread with a side of what-the-hell-is-my-life-now.”

Kira, meanwhile, was hopping over rust piles like they were stepping stones in a fairy tale, and all he could think about was how his head felt like a blender set to regret smoothie.

They reached the edge of the yard, where a twisted pile of scrap curved around an old storage shed. Kira stopped for just a second—eyes locked on a mangled chunk of metal like it whispered something only she could hear. Then she blinked and moved on like nothing happened.

Zane didn’t press. He was too busy pretending he wasn’t limping.

She kicked open the door to the shed. Inside, tools were scattered across. A half-dismantled motorcycle sat in the corner next to what looked like…a sword? Of course she had a sword.

“You good?” she asked, finally glancing at him.

“Define ‘good.’ If you mean alive, yeah. If you mean emotionally stable, I’ve been legally disqualified since age twelve.”

She smirked. “Sounds familiar. Sit.”

He flopped onto a beat-up chair that creaked like it was filing a complaint.

“You’re not just leaking power,” she said, grabbing a wrench. “You’re drowning in it.”

“Cool. Love that for me.”

Kira spun the tool in her fingers. “Essence isn’t just power. It’s your worst impulse, given fireworks. Most people try to control it. Others get turned into nuclear punchlines.”

Zane blinked. “You’re saying it’s sentient?”

“I’m saying it’s moody and probably hates you.”

“Great. Add that to the list.”

She crossed the room, flicking a switch. A soft hum filled the space as dim lights buzzed overhead.

“I shouldn’t even be talking to you,” she said suddenly, more to herself than to him.

Zane raised a brow. “Because I’m a walking hazard or because I’m annoyingly charming?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she tapped her temple. “D.I.D. Dissociative Identity Disorder. You know, mental roommates" Kira 1, Kira 2. We’re like an exclusive club, no membership cards.”

He tilted his head. “Is that a joke or…?”

She held up a finger. “Half joke. Half-truth. Full-time job.”

A beat passed.

“So… does the other you like me, or am I gonna get stabbed?”

“You’ll find out when she wakes up.”

“Fair enough.”

Zane leaned back in the chair, watching her move. She was sharp edges and shadow, but every so often, something softer slipped through. A glance. A pause. The way she treated silence like it was sacred, not awkward.

“She’s the ice to my fire,” Kira said suddenly, her voice quieter. “Silent, controlled, deadly boring. Honestly? She’d rather read a murder than commit one. Kinda disappointing, really.”

“Sounds like you’re the fun one.”

“I’m the reckless one.”

“Same thing.”

She looked at him for a long second. Then—finally—her lips curved upward, just a bit. “Come on.”

Outside, the wind had picked up. Sunlight bounced off twisted chrome and scorched rubber. Zane followed her through another row of wreckage until they stopped at something that made him literally take a step back.

Midnight blue paint. White racing stripes. Royalty among peasants was a car that looked like it had driven straight out of a dream and parked itself in a legend. The 1977

Ford Mustang Cobra II sat untouched by rust, completely out of place in this graveyard of forgotten machines.

Zane skidded to a stop. “You’ve got to be joking.”

"This is your ride?" he asked, half in awe, half in disbelief.

Kira came to a stop beside the car, resting a hand on the hood. “1977,” she said with a hint of pride. “Some weirdo dumped her; it was a bunch of scrap, but I brought her back to life.”

From inside her jacket, she pulled out a pair of black sunglasses and slid them on with a kind of effortless confidence that could’ve triggered a slow-motion explosion behind her, and no one would’ve questioned it.

“Jump on,” she said, flashing a sly grin. “We’ve got a date to crash.”

Zane stared for half a second too long, grinning like a man who’d just seen a goddess roll up in muscle and leather. “I might propose to you in ten minutes.”

“You’ve got nine minutes to impress me then.”