I was curled up on my lumpy secondhand couch, ptop banced on one thigh, a mug of hot chocote in one hand. Well—“hot chocote” was generous. It was more like a cup of sugar with a dash of hot chocote somewhere in the chemical mix. I needed the energy. Probably. That was my excuse, anyway. Momentum powers sounded like they should run on calories and poor impulse control, and I wasn’t about to argue with science.

  The fan forums were buzzing. Apparently, my little beatdown with Crusher had made waves—despite the fact that, what, maybe a dozen people were actually in the bank at the time? Funny how quickly stuff spread when someone filmed you getting ragdolled through drywall.

  Still, fame was fame. Even if the reviews were… mixed.

  [User2387] “She defeated Crusher, but only just.”

  Excuse me, just? That man made a crater out of a bank vault with my body and I still flicked him into the stratosphere. I totally had it under control. Mostly.

  [JetSetJustice] “Why didn’t she just start with that flick?”

  Because that’s not how my power works, dummy. I don’t come pre-loaded with kinetic death. But I guess I can’t bme them for not knowing the mechanics. Or for having the tactical sense of a wet sock.

  [HostageBae] “Her ass was amazing. I almost forgot I was a hostage.”

  Okay. Gross. Also… thank you? Wait no. No thank you. Ew.

  [MamaBear79] “She never stayed down. I felt safe with her protecting us.”

  Damn straight. That one made me sit up a little straighter, even if my ribs still ached. Not gonna lie, that kind of comment made the bruises hurt a little less.

  Still, it was surreal. This was only my fourth outing as a hero. The first guy was a mugger with a crowbar. Didn’t even need powers for that one. The Caprici Gang… let’s not talk about them. That mess happened mostly in back alleys and nobody saw it except the people who needed to forget it.

  The third vilin? Pnt dy. Genuinely hot, very stabby. I managed to punt her into a recycling center and call it a win.

  But Crusher? That one had cameras. That one had screaming. That one had me bleeding onto Apex’s pecs like a cartoon sidekick. So yeah, I guess I had finally made it into the public eye. Lucky me.

  I refreshed the thread. A new comment had appeared at the bottom.

  [ShadowWatcher] “She’s stronger than she looks. But she bleeds. Apex didn’t.”

  Weirdly ominous. Weirdly hot. I bookmarked the thread and took another sip of liquified sugar.

  I pottered around my apartment until the sunrise lit the sky in that soft, golden way that made everything feel slightly less like a fever dream. Then I dragged myself out the door and made my way next door to the garage—my garage. The sign out front still had a crack from that one time a possessed Vespa tried to kill me. I left it as character.

  Randy was already inside, hunched over the rustbucket sedan we took in yesterday. He had his usual bck beanie on, sleeves rolled up, and was muttering curses at a serpentine belt like it had personally offended him.

  Randy was my only employee. Kind of a bastard, but the functional kind. Didn’t ask questions, didn’t sck off unless he was hungover, and his crude jokes were actually funny about sixty percent of the time. That was better odds than most sitcoms. He also only sometimes made fun of my height, which was a massive upgrade from the st guy I hired.

  The st guy, who I had to fire for embezzling funds and hitting on me with the subtlety of a brick through a window. And not even a sexy brick. Just a regur, sad, dusty brick. But I digress.

  Good riddance. Randy was good enough.

  “Yo, Randy,” I called as I stepped inside and dropped my thermos of breakfast sugar—I mean hot chocote—on the workbench.

  “Hey boss,” he grunted back without looking up. “We need to order a new belt for this one. The ones we’ve got don’t fit this model. She’s a picky bitch.”

  “Yeah, like my ex,” I said, yawning. “I’ll get on that now.”

  I ducked into my cramped office—more like a glorified closet with a desk—and booted up the garage’s hiriously outdated ordering system. It made dial-up noises. Like, actual honest-to-god noises. But I knew how to coax it like an old cat, and within a few minutes I had the part ordered.

  With that squared away, I threw on my coveralls, wiped sleep from my eyes, and got to work on the other car in the garage. It was just another morning at Ivy's Auto, where the jokes were bad, the cars were worse, and the superhero bruises were hidden under grease-stained sleeves.

  And honestly? I kind of liked it that way.

  After a few hours of work—two busted bolts, one coffee refill, and a brief but passionate argument with a stubborn catalytic converter—I heard a voice that was definitely not Randy’s.

  “Hello?”

  It was calm, feminine, and just curious enough to trigger my internal customer service arm. I groaned softly, slid out from under the car, and looked up—only to immediately regret all my life choices.

  Standing in the garage doorway was a woman. A woman. Not just any woman—tall. Gorgeous in a dangerous, "I could ruin your life with a whisper" kind of way. She had long bck hair pulled into a sleek ponytail that probably smelled like sin and expensive shampoo. Her eyes were stormy grey, sharp enough to slice through steel—or souls. Her outfit? Somewhere between goth and biker—bck leather jacket, dark jeans, boots that looked like they could stomp a man’s spine into modern art.

  Also? Kinda busty. Like, aggressively so. The kind of busty that made my brain momentarily forget how nguage worked.

  I blinked up at her from the floor, a wrench still clutched in my gloved hand, my oil-streaked face heating up by the second.

  Okay.

  A lot of gay panic.

  "Uh. Hi," I said, because my smoothness was legendary and I clearly had everything under control, including my extremely not-normal pulse rate. "Can I... help you with something? Or... someone? Or just stand here while you look like a hot eldritch problem?"

  Nailed it.

  She tilted her head slightly, a tiny amused smile tugging at the corner of her lips. I may have bcked out for 0.3 seconds.

  "I need someone to look at my bike," she said, voice low and velvety, like a panther purring. "It’s making a noise I don’t like."

  So am I, I thought, but I was proud to keep that one internal. Barely.

  “Sure,” I said, scrambling to my feet and trying not to trip over the floor jack in my rush. “Let me just—uh, yeah. I can help. I’m a professional. Totally. Bike stuff. That’s me.”

  God, I needed to pull it together. I was a superhero for crying out loud. I fought crime. I stared down megalomaniacs. I had literally punched a man into orbit. And now I was melting faster than chocote in a glovebox because some mysterious goth babe walked into my garage?

  Yep. Totally fine. Normal Friday. Absolutely no threat to my sanity here.

  None whatsoever.

  “Right. I’d prefer it was looked at as soon as possible. I can pay for a rush job,” said the mysterious, sexy woman in a voice that was way too smooth for this time in the morning.

  Oh no. She was polite, too? That was just unfair.

  “No problem,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t crack like a pubescent teen. “Where’s the bike?”

  She gave me a subtle nod toward the lot outside.

  “Sweet,” I replied, trying to py it cool even though my heart was tap dancing in my ribcage. “Bring it in and park it over there by the lift. I’ll take a look at it soon.”

  She smiled.

  God help me.

  It wasn’t even one of those big, toothy, enthusiastic smiles. No—it was small. Subtle. Mysterious. Like she knew exactly what she was doing and was maybe a little amused by my whole internal meltdown. Which, fair. I was very meltable.

  “Thank you,” she said warmly, then turned and walked back outside.

  She wheeled in her bike like she belonged in a slow-mo scene from an action movie, handed off the keys with casual grace, and then—just like that—she was gone. Out the door and off down the sidewalk, disappearing into the morning haze like a beautiful fever dream.

  I stood there, holding her keys, completely motionless for a solid minute.

  Then another minute.

  Maybe three.

  “Wow,” Randy finally said, leaning around the hood of a car with a shit-eating grin. “Boss, you’re down bad for her, huh?”

  I blinked slowly, turned to him, and deadpanned, “Don’t you have work to do, Randy?”

  “Oh, I do. But watching your gay panic in real time is much more entertaining.”

  “Get under the damn car before I throw you under it.”

  He snorted and went back to work, humming something suspiciously romantic under his breath.

  I turned back to the lift and stared at the bike, like it might give me answers.

  Or a phone number.

  Either one was fine, honestly.

  “Oh fuck I forgot to ask for ID.”

  About an hour into working on the bike, I came to the inevitable conclusion that this machine had seen some things.

  Don’t get me wrong—it was a gorgeous ride. Sleek lines, matte-bck paint with just the right amount of scuff to look cool and not neglected. But under the surface? A mechanical Frankenstein. It was like someone had taken five different bikes, picked their favorite bits, and mashed them together with a prayer and a welder.

  The carburetor was definitely from a different model. The wiring was a nightmare only a masochist could love. And I’m pretty sure the suspension setup belonged on a dirt bike, not a street cruiser. How it even ran was a mystery. But hey—good thing I’m a miracle worker.

  I was elbow-deep in the guts of the engine, mentally swearing at whoever st touched it, when my phone buzzed in my back pocket. I wiped my hands on my already grease-stained rag and pulled it out.

  Text from my informant:“Heads up. Wendigo’s hitting the Ironvale Chemical Pnt. Css A. Trying to bust into storage.”

  I let out a slow exhale through my nose. Wendigo. Great. Just what I wanted. A seven-foot-tall frostbitten cannibal cryptid with rage issues and cws like machetes. Definitely a job for someone with momentum-based powers and a questionable sense of self-preservation.

  I pushed away from the bike and stood up, stretching out my back with a pop.

  “Randy,” I called.

  He rolled out from under the sedan, wiping his hands. “Yeah, boss?”

  “I need you to finish the bike. I’ve gotta head out and grab some parts.”

  He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Parts… or ‘parts’?”

  I gave him my best deadpan. “There’s only one type of parts, Randy.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, crossing his arms. “Funny how you always need them right when the city starts screaming.”

  I pointed at him. “That’s called good timing. Now get back to work.”

  He chuckled and gave me a half-salute before sliding back under the sedan. “Stay outta trouble, boss.”

  “No promises,” I muttered, already heading for the back office to make a very dramatic and fast change of clothes.

  I got there within ten minutes.

  Now, usually, that would be impossible. But I did something I really hated—something I only did in desperate times—and smashed my head against the reinforced metal wall in the garage. The wall had been specially designed for moments like this, allowing me to store kinetic energy and use it to move fast. Really fast. Well, fast enough to cross the city in record time without becoming a hazard to pedestrians or crashing into anything.

  Not as fast as one of those top-tier supers, like Thunderstep, but fast enough for me to make it from my garage in the blink of an eye and avoid colliding with any innocent bystanders.

  As for the minor property damage? I’ll just let that slide for now. It’s not like I made a habit of leaping over fences and leaving a trail of destruction behind me… okay, maybe I did, but who was counting?

  When I finally cleared the fence and nded on the other side, I skidded to a halt. I came face-to-face with a woman who somehow—somehow—had turned into a cryptid. Or maybe she was a cryptid? I wasn’t exactly sure. She looked like she’d wandered in from another world, or at the very least, another country.

  Her towering form, covered in fur, stood seven feet tall. Her face, or rather the skull of some kind of beast that repced it, gred down at me. She had massive, cwed hands and the body of something out of a nightmare—long limbs, built for speed and destruction. This wasn’t just some random vilin; no, this was a Css A. Wendigo. A monster.

  My gut twisted in annoyance and disbelief.

  “Wendy, what the fuck are you doing?” I shouted at the woman, my voice carrying over the wreckage she had already begun to cause.

  Her skeletal head tilted toward me, and the air around her seemed to chill in response. For a moment, she just stared at me, eyes glowing faintly through the hollow sockets of her skull. It made my skin crawl, but I kept my stance steady.

  “I’m getting what I need,” she growled in response, her voice a guttural rasp. “You’re too te, Meat.”

  Before I could even process the insult, Wendigo took a step back, raised her massive cwed hand, and with a snarl, tore the battered metal door off its hinges. It was one of those thick, industrial doors you only saw in pces that didn’t expect to be broken into—but apparently, it wasn’t a match for her raw strength. She flung it at me like it was a piece of scrap paper.

  I barely had time to react before the door collided with me, its sheer weight and force hitting me square in the chest.

  I’d like to say I elegantly dodged or blocked it, but nope. It was like being hit by a freight train made of steel (which I think all of them were? I digress). The kinetic energy surged through me, sending a shockwave of pain down my spine as I was bsted off my feet. The next thing I knew, I was airborne, the world around me spinning, and then—crash.

  I smmed into the fence behind me, the splintering wood and metal barbs digging into my back. The pain was immediate and sharp, my body feeling like a ragdoll caught in a storm. My ribs felt like they might’ve cracked, and for a second, I struggled to catch my breath. That’s going to bruise like hell, I thought, even as my head throbbed.

  For a brief moment, everything was a blur—the sounds of Wendigo’s ughter echoing in the distance, the sharp sting of the fence pressing into me. But I wasn’t down for long.

  I gritted my teeth, using every ounce of strength to shove myself upright. “Fuck, that hurt,” I muttered to myself. My heart was racing. It wasn’t just the physical damage; it was the reality that Wendigo wasn’t here to chat. She wanted something, and I had a sinking feeling it wasn’t just a casual robbery.

  I rubbed my shoulder where the door had hit me, trying to shake off the dizziness. When I looked up, I saw her standing tall and menacing, her glowing eyes fixed on me with that same predatory gaze.

  "You still want to try and stop me?" she taunted, her voice dripping with venom. The wind howled as she took a step toward me, the chill in the air making my breath fog in front of me.

  I took a deep breath and cracked my neck, refusing to show weakness. "You really think a door's gonna stop me?"

  She grinned, showing off sharp, animalistic teeth. "No. But it's a start."

  Wendigo’s eyes flickered with that savage hunger, and with a growl, she rushed inside the warehouse. I groaned. Of course it’s not going to be easy.

  I cursed under my breath and sprinted after her, already regretting my decision to take this on solo. Stupid fucking hero complex, I thought to myself. I could’ve just called in someone else, anyone else, and let them deal with this mess.

  But no—there wasn’t another hero here, was there? And unfortunately, my sense of duty was stronger than my desire to live a peaceful life. So, here I was, running into the building like an idiot.

  Inside the massive, dimly lit warehouse, the air was thick with the scent of industrial chemicals—everything from rusted metal to faint fumes of whatever votile substance they were cooking up. Rows and rows of barrels were stacked against the walls, each beled with something that made me wince, not knowing the half of what was inside.

  “Wendy, can you not be a fucking gremlin for five seconds and maybe stop with this stereotype? How the hell does fertilizer help you, exactly?” I yelled across the room, taking a deep breath to steady myself.

  “Foolish human,” Wendigo growled, her voice low and guttural. “You do not understand—”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure. Whatever.” I cut her off, rolling my eyes. “Am I an idiot? Yes, I’ll take that L. But am I going to beat the living hell out of you? Yeah, probably.”

  Wendigo’s eyes narrowed, but her confidence never wavered. She was practically bristling with rage as she stepped closer. I gnced around quickly, taking in the scene. Looked like most of the civilians had evacuated. That was a win at least.

  “I will kill you,” she snarled, her fangs bared as her cws flexed menacingly.

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Sure thing, Wendy. That’s cute.”

  And with that, I lunged at her. I ran across the cold concrete floor, barely giving myself a moment to regret the decision. With all my strength, I smmed my fist into her leg, putting everything I had into it. It nded with the force of a regur mechanic.

  She didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. Her thick, furred muscles absorbed the hit like it was nothing, and she just looked down at me with that predatory smile, her eyes gleaming.

  “You are weak,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension.

  “Yeah,” I muttered, stepping back for a second. “Still gonna beat the fuck out of you though.”

  I reared back and punched her again, this time aiming for her belly, hoping for a softer spot. Big mistake. My fist nded with a thud against her furry stomach, and wow, she was solid. Like, solid solid. Felt like I was trying to punch a concrete wall wrapped in fur.

  She didn’t even flinch. Just stood there, staring at me with a look that screamed amateur.

  “Wow,” I said, shaking my hand out a little. “You really are a freak of nature.”

  I took a step back, shaking out my sore hand. Okay, this wasn’t going as pnned. Wendigo was a beast—and not in the good way. More like a walking tank with teeth.

  She smirked at me, cws flexing as she cracked her knuckles. “Is that all? I thought heroes were supposed to be tough.”

  “Yeah, well,” I muttered, wiping a strand of sweat off my forehead, “I’m just getting warmed up.”

  I charged again—this time, I tried to feint left and circle around her. It was a decent move, all things considered, and I could’ve sworn she was going to be caught off guard. But then, as if she was reading my mind, her massive hand shot out like a damn sledgehammer.

  Wham!

  My head snapped forward as her fist connected with my chest. The wind was knocked out of me, and I staggered back, nearly falling over. I barely had time to get my bearings before she grabbed me by the colr and lifted me off the ground like I was a ragdoll.

  “Pathetic,” she growled, baring her teeth.

  “Yeah, okay, okay,” I gasped. “I get it. You’re strong, I’m weak. We can skip to the part where I kick your ass now, right?”

  She just tilted her head, clearly enjoying the fact that she had me at her mercy. I kicked my legs a little, trying to nd a hit anywhere. But my feet couldn’t even reach her knees, and my filing didn’t even get a rise out of her.

  “Wendy, you really need to work on your communication skills,” I grumbled, trying to shove her hands off me. It didn’t work. Not even a little.

  “You will die here, hero.” Her voice was calm, almost bored as she tightened her grip.

  “Yeah, uh, I’m not really into that idea, so how about no?”

  With all the strength I could muster, I threw my elbow backward, catching her in the ribs. She hissed in pain and let go for a second, which was all I needed. I managed to twist out of her grip and stumble back a few feet. I was winded, bruised, and feeling like I'd just gotten run over by a truck, but at least I was still standing.

  “Fuck…” I muttered under my breath. How much longer can I keep this up?

  Wendigo cracked her knuckles, her lips curling into a smile again. “You’ll have to do better than that, little hero.”

  “Yeah? Well, guess what? I’m just getting started.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was true, but I had to try. I charged again, this time aiming for her midsection, hoping my desperate punches would hit something softer than her solid muscles. She was fast, though—faster than I expected.

  Before I could nd a blow, she grabbed me by the wrists and spun me around like I weighed nothing.

  “Fuck!” I yelped, only just managing to pnt my feet as she threw me toward a stack of chemical barrels.

  I barely managed to brace myself before I crashed into them, sending the barrels toppling over with a loud crash. The metal containers spilled something foul-smelling all over the ground.

  Wendigo was already stalking toward me, slow and deliberate, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Is this the part where you beg for mercy?”

  I shook my head, gritting my teeth as I tried to stand up. “Nah… It’s the part where I—”

  Before I could finish the sentence, she was on me again, kicking my side and sending me crashing back into the ground. My vision swam with stars, and I could barely breathe with the weight of her foot pressing into my ribs.

  “Damn it,” I wheezed. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

  She smiled down at me, voice low and ominous. “You are durable, meat. I will give you that.”

  Then she kicked me.

  I was unched like a damn cannonball, crashed through a stack of pallets, and smashed back-first into the concrete perimeter fence of the factory. It cracked behind me, leaving a fresh Ivy-shaped crater in the wall. The kind of thing someone’s going to need a city permit to fix ter.

  I groaned, pretty sure my spine was now made of question marks.

  “Hey, you doing alright there?” came a voice — masculine, confident, a little amused.

  I blinked through the dust. A figure stood nearby, silhouetted against the afternoon light. Slim build, insectile wings folded behind his back, blue accents gleaming along his suit.

  Oh. Great.

  The Dragonfly. Mid-tier hero, good with tech, quick on his feet, and just high-profile enough to be annoying. Not in a bad way — he was capable, sure — just… always showed up when you were looking your least cool.

  “I’m fine,” I grunted, dragging myself out of the dent in the fence. My ribs felt like angry snakes, but I wasn’t about to let him see me limp. “Wendy’s just... passionate.”

  “I’d say so,” he said, hovering a few feet off the ground now, wings humming quietly. “That unch looked brutal.”

  “She’ll get hers,” I muttered, brushing dust off my suit. “Soon as I figure out which one of my internal organs still works.”

  He tilted his head, considering me. “Wait a second... you're the one who took down Crusher, right? A-css brawler, urban zone fight, kicked him through two parking structures?”

  I blinked. “...Yeah.”

  “Nice. That footage was wild. Wasn't expecting you to be so—” he gestured vaguely, “—ground level.”

  I gave him a look. "And here I thought we were bonding."

  He chuckled, wings fring behind him. “Didn’t mean it as an insult. You’ve got guts.”

  “Guts and at least three cracked ribs,” I muttered. I gnced back toward the warehouse, where Wendigo’s silhouette stalked between chemical drums like a wolf in a china shop.

  He floated a little higher, scanning the situation. “You want backup, or should I stand here and keep complimenting you?”

  “Oh, I’m getting back in there.” I rolled my shoulder with a grimace. “Just needed to test the fence for structural integrity. Spoiler alert: not great.”

  “Well,” he said, adjusting a device on his gauntlet, “you lead, I’ll follow.”

  I held up a hand, trying to look casual and definitely not like I’d just been unched into a wall. “Nah, I got this, Bug Boy. She’s got it coming to her now.”

  Dragonfly gave me a crooked smirk, arms folded as he hovered in pce. “Yeah. Of course. Just holler if you need backup, Meat Shield.”

  I flipped him off over my shoulder as I jogged back into the warehouse.

  Inside, it smelled like chemicals and wet dog.

  And there she was—Wendigo—slurping something viscous and probably highly toxic out of a barrel like it was a juice box. The front of her long, wolf-skull muzzle dripped with greenish gunk, and she made eye contact like I’d just interrupted her romantic dinner.

  “Hey, Wendy,” I called out, pnting my feet. “We’re not done yet. No snack break for you.”

  She slowly turned, licking whatever chemical sludge clung to her fangs with a disturbingly long tongue. The snarl she gave me could have curdled milk.

  “I’m going to eat you,” she growled, the promise thick in her voice. Not a threat. A statement of future intent.

  And okay—I froze for half a second.

  Just a half.

  Because holy shit, she was terrifying. Easily seven feet tall, fur matted with grime and blood and now chemical runoff, eyes glowing like searchlights from the pits of some ancient forest god’s nightmare.

  “Y-yeah sure,” I managed, chest puffing up like I wasn’t visibly trembling. “You can’t even put me down. Let alone kill me.”

  Nailed it. The stammering didn’t count if I ignored it.

  Wendigo let out something between a snarl and a growl and dropped the barrel like it offended her. The metal crunched under her cws as it hit the ground, gurgling out its toxic contents across the floor.

  Then she lunged.

  No warning, no preamble. One second she was across the warehouse, and the next she was airborne, cws outstretched, snarling like a sixteen wheeler made of nightmares. I barely had time to brace before her massive weight collided with me, and we went tumbling backward across the concrete.

  My back hit a stack of crates, and they exploded like a fireworks show made of plywood.

  She straddled me in a crouch, cws pinning my shoulders. Her breath was hot and reeked of copper and whatever the hell was in that barrel. Her skull-face was inches from mine.

  “I will rip you apart,” she hissed.

  I wheezed and grinned up at her. “Yeah? Well, bring a crowbar, bitch. I’m stubborn.”

  I don’t think she liked that.

  Wendigo unched herself at me with a roar, and I tried to dodge.

  Keyword: tried.

  Her shoulder smmed into me and I swear I saw a brief fsh of a previous life before I hit the ground. Again.

  My back met concrete with a CRACK, and I bounced. I bounced. Like a skipping stone across a misery puddle.

  I wheezed, trying to figure out which part of me still worked. Jury was out.

  “You’re persistent,” Wendigo sneered, towering over me. “But stupid.”

  “Yup,” I coughed. “That’s me. Stupid like a fox.”

  She raised a cwed foot and stomped. I rolled just in time, narrowly missing a new rib arrangement. The floor cracked where my torso had been.

  This was fine. Everything was fine. A few cracked tiles, a light concussion, and the distinct taste of blood in my mouth—could be worse.

  I forced myself up again. Staggered. Caught my bance on a support beam.

  “Okay. Round three. Or four. Who’s counting.”

  She didn’t wait for me to recover this time.

  Her next swing caught me across the shoulder and sent me spinning. I collided with a stack of drums, scattering metal barrels everywhere. They cnged and cttered, rolling across the floor while I y there trying to remember if I’d always had this many joints.

  I groaned. “Okay. Okay. Let’s workshop this. Pn A: punch her. Pn B: don’t get punched. So far we are zero for two.”

  I hauled myself up with a grunt, hand slick with some kind of mystery chemical. Hopefully not acidic. Probably acidic.

  Wendigo stalked toward me again, eyes glowing, cws dripping with something that was either oil or blood or both.

  “You’re done,” she growled.

  “I’m still standing,” I muttered, immediately before colpsing back onto one knee. “Technically.”

  She was right in front of me again, hand reaching down to grab my throat—

  And I headbutted her.

  Not with power. Not with any fancy trick. Just raw, stupid spite.

  Her skull smmed into mine with a crack like a tree splitting in a storm, and I saw stars.

  She barely flinched.

  I fell over.

  “Bold move,” she muttered. “Moronic.”

  “Mhm,” I slurred, face pressed to cold cement. “You should see what I do when I think things through.”

  Then she picked me up and threw me across the warehouse again, because apparently that was my primary mode of transportation now.

  I got up again, because I always get up. That’s the thing about me. You can sm me into walls, toss me across buildings, cave in a few ribs—but I’ll still be back on my feet, wheezing something smug and stupid.

  “Hey,” I croaked, spitting out something that might’ve been a tooth. “Why do vilins always throw their opponents? Wouldn’t it make more sense to not give them free distance to regroup? Actually, a lot of heroes do it too. You know, now that I’m thinking about it—hey look! I can think!”

  “Good idea, meat,” Wendigo growled—and then unched at me again like a furry missile filled with rage.

  And wow. I was nowhere near fast enough to fluke my way out of that one.

  She caught me around the neck mid-sentence and smmed me down, hard enough that the floor cracked under me. The air left my lungs like a panicked intern on their first day.

  I twitched, trying to remember how breathing worked, and was mostly just rewarded with stars in my eyes and a renewed intimacy with the concrete.

  Then I saw it.

  Movement. Up on the catwalk above us. Just a flicker—a silhouette sliding through the dark like it belonged there.

  A shadow in the shadows.

  Huh, I thought, as Wendigo raised one massive cwed hand.

  Then she swiped. Fast and furious, cws aimed straight at my face.

  Pain bloomed across my cheek like a firework going off under my skin. Hot and sharp and wet. But not deep. She barely broke the surface—probably because, as she’d already pointed out, I was durable.

  She snarled, clearly frustrated her dramatic mauling hadn’t taken my head off.

  So she did it again.

  And again.

  By the third ssh, I was dazed and bleeding, but something else was building in my gut. Not fury. Not adrenaline.

  Kinetic energy.

  Not the most efficient delivery method, but hey—cws were just punches with spice, right?

  I grinned through bloodied teeth. “Y’know… not as useful as a solid right hook, but… kinetic energy’s kinetic energy, baby.”

  She blinked down at me, confused for half a second.

  That was my window.

  I tapped her on the chest—just a little “boop”—and then unloaded.

  All the stored energy from every punch, kick, sm, ssh, and one particurly disrespectful toss across the warehouse. I dumped it into her in one explosive, violent burst.

  Wendigo didn’t fly. She unched. Backward. Through the wall like a werewolf-shaped cannonball. Then through the next wall. Across the street. Into a building that had definitely not asked to be involved in this mess. She kept going—windows shattering, concrete cracking—until she finally came to rest somewhere deep in what I really hoped wasn’t a daycare.

  I stood there in the empty warehouse, panting, bleeding, shaking a little. My knees hated me. My ribs were doing something crunchy. My lungs were staging a walkout.

  Colteral damage? Yeah. Guilty. But, look: if you don’t want buildings to get destroyed, maybe don’t let magically enhanced cryptid women rampage through chemical pnts.

  I limped my way outside, still wheezing, face wet with sweat and blood, and who do I see standing there, fresh as a daisy?

  Bug boy.

  He gave me a once-over and winced. “Eesh. You look like someone put a blender on pulse and tossed you in with a crowbar.”

  “Yeah, well,” I rasped. “Kinda was.”

  He raised a brow. “So, uh… why didn’t you just start with that nuke punch?”

  I gave him a shrug that I immediately regretted. “Wouldn’t be dramatic enough.”

  And because I’m nothing if not a consummate professional, I added two half-hearted jazz hands before limping away from him.

  Had to check on the big bad. No point in walking away just for her to come flying out of a wall again like a pissed-off Muppet.

  I crossed the street—after looking both ways, because I may be a human disaster but I’m not a jaywalker—and stepped into the structurally compromised building I’d accidentally remodeled with Wendigo’s entire body.

  Inside, rubble. Dust. A broken ceiling fan spinning slowly in defeat.

  And at the center of it all?

  Wendigo.

  Out cold. Limbs spyed. Skull-mask cracked.

  I let out a shaky breath and leaned against the wall, which promptly cracked behind me. “Yep,” I muttered. “Totally pnned that.”

  I finally made it back to the garage after dealing with the Specials Containment Unit—paperwork, incident reports, the whole song and dance. They were only mildly pissed about the building I turned into abstract art. Thankfully, no civvies got hurt, and Wendigo was headed to Super-Max with a fresh migraine.

  Slipping back into civvie mode wasn’t hard. A change of clothes in the alley, a hoodie to hide the bloodied hairline, and a confident walk like I definitely hadn’t been body-smmed through three walls today.

  I stepped into the garage, and the comforting scent of grease, oil, and cheap coffee immediately hit me. Randy was still under the mystery woman’s “bike”—I used that term generously, out of respect for the concept of motorcycles. Half its parts had probably been invented as a joke.

  Randy poked his head up from behind the frame and winced as he got a good look at me. “Sooo… how’d ‘parts’ go?”

  I dropped my bag with a heavy thunk and walked over, brushing some dried blood off my temple like it was lint. “Negotiations were intense.”

  He gave me a long, slow squint, clearly debating whether he wanted to push that any further. He didn’t. Smart man. “Right. Well, the bike’s still a hot mess, but it’s less of a mess now. Had to rip out half the internals and repce them, but at least she’s not growling at me like a possessed blender anymore.”

  “Unlike me,” I muttered, rubbing at my ribs. “Good work. I’ll give her a once-over. Go grab some lunch before you fuse with that sedan permanently.”

  Randy peeled off his gloves and stretched with an exaggerated groan. “Sure thing, boss. Try not to explode or get arrested while I’m gone.”

  “No promises.”

  He paused in the doorway. “And hey, if that biker chick comes back looking for her ride—maybe let me talk to her this time, yeah?”

  I gave him a withering look.

  He grinned and slipped out the door.

  I exhaled slowly, the adrenaline finally wearing off as I turned toward the Frankenbike on the lift.

  Back to work. Back to normal. Or, y’know. My version of it.

  SupernovaSymphony