"Better," Kira said. "You look normal. Well, as normal as you can look after growing seven centimeters overnight. You look like you work in private security or something."

  "Thanks," Arthur said dryly.

  They paid—the clerk still barely looking up—and left, Arthur carrying a bag with his old clothes and a few additional items.

  As they walked back through the Arclight District toward where Kira had parked, she said, "Your sister's going to notice you're taller. You can't hide that."

  Arthur's jaw tightened. "I know."

  "And the build." Kira glanced at him. "You had some workout equipment in your apartment—the pull-up bar and dumbbells. So the muscle isn't completely impossible to explain. But seven centimeters of height?" She shook her head.

  "What do you want me to tell her?" Arthur's frustration bled into his voice. "The truth? 'Hey sis, I died and came back as something that eats electricity'?"

  Kira sighed. "No. But we need something better than 'late growth spurt.' She's going to know that's bullshit."

  Arthur stopped walking. They were on an elevated walkway now, the crowds thinning as they moved away from the commercial core. Below them, the lower levels of Midspire stretched into shadow, and above, the gleaming towers of the Spire caught the afternoon sun.

  "Then we go with partial truth," Arthur said. "I've been recovering from a difficult period. Started taking my health seriously. Been working out, eating better, taking supplements." He rubbed his face. "Better posture makes me look taller. The muscle is from actually using the equipment I've been ignoring. It's thin, but it's plausible enough that maybe she won't push."

  "And if she does push?"

  "Then I change the subject. Ask about her life. Make it about her, not me." He met Kira's eyes. "I read my journal entries. The old me fought with her constantly. Maybe the new me can be different enough that she doesn't look too closely."

  Kira considered this. "That... might actually work. If you're different enough personality-wise, she might not notice the physical changes as much."

  "Exactly. I'm not the Arthur she remembers anyway. I can't be. So maybe that's an advantage."

  "Just don't let her hug you," Kira said. "She'll feel how different you are. All that muscle you didn't have before."

  Arthur nodded slowly. Another complication to manage. Another lie to maintain.

  They continued walking in silence.

  * * *

  Back at the apartment, Stella was waiting. She looked up from the laptop as they entered, her silver eyes immediately assessing Arthur.

  "The clothes fit," she observed.

  "Yeah." Arthur set down the bag. "And I almost transformed in the changing room. Nearly sprouted claws in front of a security camera."

  Stella's expression sharpened. "Did anyone see?"

  "No. It was just a few seconds. But it was right there, Stella. My body wanted to do it. Like it was the natural response." Arthur sank onto the couch. "I thought having more control would make it easier. But it's getting harder, not easier."

  "That's to be expected," Stella said. "The more your powers integrate, the more they become your default state rather than something you consciously activate. You're going to have to work harder to stay human-looking, not less hard."

  Arthur closed his eyes. "Great. So eventually I won't be able to stop myself."

  "Not without practice and discipline," Stella said. "But that takes time."

  Time they didn't have.

  Kira pulled out the hair dye she'd bought—industrial strength, designed for full coverage. "Bathroom," she ordered. "Let's fix this mess before the white takes over completely."

  The next two hours were tedious. Kira worked methodically, applying dye to every section of Arthur's hair, covering the extensive silver-white streaks. The chemical smell was overwhelming in the small bathroom, making Arthur's enhanced senses recoil.

  "Hold still," Kira muttered, working dye into his roots with gloved hands. "This stuff is strong. Should last at least a few weeks."

  "Will I even be the same person in a few weeks?" Arthur asked quietly.

  Kira paused, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "I don't know. But you're still Arthur now. That's what matters."

  When they finished, Arthur's hair was uniformly black again—no white visible anywhere. He looked more like his old self. Almost.

  "Better," Kira said, washing her hands. "Now you just need to act normal tomorrow. Don't transform. Don't drain anything. Just be a regular guy."

  "Regular," Arthur repeated. "Right."

  He looked at himself in the mirror one last time. Brown eyes, black hair, stronger body. A disguise built on chemistry and lies.

  He barely recognized himself.

  * * *

  That evening, Kira left. She hugged Arthur at the door—carefully, like she was testing the solid reality of his new frame—and told him to call if anything went wrong.

  "I mean it," she said. "Anything. If she suspects, if things get weird, if you need backup—you call."

  "I will," Arthur promised.

  "And don't let her see you drain anything. Not a phone charger, not a light switch, nothing."

  "I know," Arthur said, rolling his eyes. "I may have been shot in the head, but I'm not stupid."

  The words hung in the air.

  Kira's expression shifted—something between sadness and exasperation. "Arthur..."

  "Too soon?" He tried for levity, but it fell flat.

  "Way too soon." Kira's voice was quiet. "Maybe don't joke about that for a while."

  "Right. Sorry." Arthur cleared his throat. "I'll, uh... I'll keep my hands in my pockets. Don't want to freak her out with claws."

  "Good idea." Kira's tone was carefully neutral, but something in her eyes suggested she was still processing the casual way he'd mentioned his own death.

  Kira smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Good luck tomorrow."

  After she left, the apartment felt larger. Quieter.

  Stella watched from the couch as the door closed. "She's worried about you."

  "She should be. I'm worried about me." Arthur moved to the window, looking out over Midspire. The sun was setting, painting the city in amber and gold. Below, thousands of people moved through their lives, unaware that something inhuman walked among them. "What if I can't keep it together? What if Celina pushes and I snap? What if my powers activate and she sees?"

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  "Then we'll handle it," Stella said. "We'll adapt."

  Arthur turned to face her. "You keep saying that. But we don't actually know if we can. This is Celina. My sister. Someone who knew me before. Even more than Kira. What if she asks questions I can't answer?"

  Stella stood and crossed to him. She stopped just within arm's reach. "Arthur. We can't control everything. We can't predict every question she might ask or every way this could go wrong. But we can control how we respond."

  "That's not comforting."

  "I know it's not," Stella said. "But what I can tell you is this: You're not the same person who wrote those angry journal entries about Celina. You're someone new. Someone who doesn't carry that hurt because you can't remember it. Maybe that's an advantage. You can meet her without all that history weighing you down."

  Arthur considered this. It was strange logic, but Stella was right. The old Arthur—the one before the bullet—had clearly had complicated feelings about his sister. Resentment, anger, pain. But present Arthur? He felt nothing except curiosity and bone-deep wariness.

  "I'm going to try," Arthur said finally. "To be normal. To pretend I'm just a guy who's getting his life together after a rough patch."

  "That's all we can ask."

  Arthur looked at her—really looked. The android who'd been there when he woke up without memories. Who'd stayed when she could have left. Who'd helped him navigate this nightmare of transformation and hunger and fear.

  "We protect each other," Stella said quietly, as if reading his thoughts. "That's what this is."

  Arthur placed his hand on her shoulder. A small smile crossed his face. Then it faded.

  "I need to practice," he said suddenly.

  Stella tilted her head. "Practice?"

  "The transformation. The claws." Arthur looked at his hands. "Tomorrow, when Celina's here, if I get stressed or angry and my hands start changing—I need to know I can control it. Actually control it, not just shove my hands in my pockets and hope."

  "That's wise," Stella said. "But also risky. What if you can't stop the transformation once it starts?"

  "Then better to find out now, when it's just you here, than tomorrow when it's my sister." Arthur moved to the center of the small living space, pushing the cargo table aside to create room. "Will you help me?"

  "Of course." Stella set aside her laptop and stood. "I've been researching since we confirmed your powers are tied to emotional states, I started looking into emotional regulation techniques."

  Arthur blinked. "You've been researching... meditation?"

  "Meditation, mindfulness practices, breathing techniques, focus exercises." Stella's tone was matter-of-fact. "If your transformations are triggered by stress, anger, and fear, then learning to manage those emotions might give you control over when and how you transform."

  "Where did you learn all that?"

  "The internet has extensive resources on emotional self-regulation. I've compiled the most effective techniques based on peer-reviewed studies and practical applications." She gestured for him to sit. "We'll start with basic breathing and visualization."

  Arthur sat cross-legged on the floor, feeling slightly absurd. "I don't know if this is going to work."

  "Neither do I," Stella admitted. "But we won't know unless we try."

  She settled on the floor across from him, mirroring his position. The neon light from outside cast shifting patterns across her face—cyan, magenta, amber.

  "Close your eyes," Stella instructed. "Focus on your breathing. Four counts in, hold for four, four counts out."

  Arthur obeyed, feeling self-conscious. Inhale—one, two, three, four. Hold. Exhale—one, two, three, four.

  After a few cycles, something shifted. His heartbeat began to slow. The constant hum of the city's energy—always there, always pulling at him—faded to background noise. His shoulders relaxed.

  "Good," Stella said quietly. "Now visualize the transformation. Don't force it. Just... imagine it. Your hands changing. The claws forming. See it in your mind."

  Arthur pictured it—his fingers darkening, hardening, extending into the scything talons he'd almost manifested in the store. The flesh becoming dense, almost metallic. The patterns of color swirling beneath the surface.

  "Now try to make it real," Stella said. "Slowly. Deliberately. You're in control."

  Arthur focused on his right hand. He thought about the anger he'd felt when the teenager bumped into him. The hunger that pulled at him constantly. The fear of being discovered, of losing himself to whatever he was becoming.

  His fingers tingled.

  He opened his eyes and looked down.

  His hand was changing.

  The flesh darkened from fingertip to knuckle, shifting from brown skin to something denser, harder. Beneath the surface, faint patterns of color swirled—aurora borealis trapped under glass. His fingers elongated slightly, the tips sharpening into points that caught the neon light.

  Not fully transformed. Not the lethal weapons he'd manifested in the alley. But definitely not human.

  "I'm doing it," Arthur breathed, wonder and fear mixing in his voice. "Stella, I'm actually—"

  And then the memory hit him.

  * * *

  A fragment. Corrupted data bleeding through.

  The alley. Rain. Heavy rain drumming on concrete.

  Darkness. Then—impact. He'd fallen. From where? The rooftops were twenty meters up.

  His body moved wrong. Too fast. Too strong. His hands already transformed—claws of solidified light, swirling with impossible colors.

  Five men. Surrounding someone. A hooded figure.

  They turned. Saw him. Fear in their eyes.

  "What the hell—where did he come from?"

  Movement. Not his choice. His body acting on instinct he didn't understand.

  The first man—the knife—Arthur's hand clamping on his face. The wet crunch. The wall cratering.

  Gunfire. Muzzle flashes strobing the darkness.

  His claws—beautiful, terrible, glowing with aurora light—punching through throats, through chests.

  Screaming. Blood. The smell of copper and ozone.

  Then—the hooded figure attacked HIM.

  Twin blades erupting from her forearms. Obsidian-black alloy plunging into his chest. Through his heart.

  He should have died.

  Instead—power. Energy flowing FROM her, through the blades, into him.

  Her eyes—brown shifting to crimson, then flickering, failing.

  His veins pulsing with multi-colored light. Draining her. Killing her to live.

  BANG.

  The gunshot from behind. One of the thugs, barely conscious, pistol raised.

  The bullet through the back of his skull. Exiting his forehead. Brain matter and blood.

  Falling.

  Darkness.

  But beneath it all—the worst part—

  The satisfaction. The pleasure of draining her energy. Of taking life to fuel his own.

  What was he?

  * * *

  Arthur gasped and yanked his hand back. The claws retracted instantly, flesh returning to normal, but the fragments didn't fade.

  "I killed them," he said, his voice strangled. "And then—Stella, you stabbed me. Your blades. I was draining you through your own weapons—"

  His breathing accelerated. The room spun. He tried to stand but his legs wouldn't work. He stumbled, catching himself on his hands and knees, hyperventilating.

  The fragments were too broken to make sense. He'd fallen from impossible heights. Killed five men with claws he didn't understand. Been stabbed through the heart. Drained Stella's systems. Been shot in the head.

  None of it should be possible.

  All of it had happened.

  "Arthur." Stella's voice, distant through the roaring in his ears.

  "You attacked me," Arthur gasped. "In the alley. Your blades—I can see it—you thought I was a threat—"

  "I don't remember," Stella said quietly. "My memories of that night are corrupted. But yes. My combat protocols would have identified an unknown threat. I would have engaged."

  "And I drained you," Arthur said, his whole body shaking. "I killed you to save myself. Just like the men. I took your energy and I—" He couldn't finish.

  The panic attack had him fully now. His vision narrowed to a tunnel. His chest felt like it was being crushed. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Just the fragments playing over and over—claws through flesh, energy draining through blades, the bullet, the falling, the dying—

  "I'm a monster," he gasped. "I killed you. I killed all of you."

  Then Stella was there.

  She knelt in front of him and pulled him into her arms—awkward at first, uncertain, her movements too precise. But then she adjusted, her grip becoming firm. Solid. Real.

  "You're safe," she said quietly. "You're here. Not there. Here."

  Arthur clutched at her, his face pressed against her shoulder, trying to breathe. She was cool to the touch. But right now, she was the only solid thing in a world that was spinning apart.

  "I killed you," Arthur said again, the words muffled against her shoulder.

  "You didn't," Stella said. Her hand moved to the back of his head, holding him. "I'm here. I'm alive. My systems rebooted. Whatever you drained from me, it wasn't fatal."

  "But I tried—"

  "You were dying," Stella interrupted gently. "Shot through the head. Your body was operating on pure survival instinct. You didn't choose to drain me. Your powers did it automatically. That's not murder, Arthur. That's biology."

  "The men—"

  "They were trying to kill both of us. You stopped them." Her voice was steady, certain. "I don't remember it clearly. My memories are fragments. But I know this: we both survived that night. Whatever happened, whatever you did—it kept us alive."

  Arthur's breathing was still ragged, but her words were cutting through the panic. "I don't remember choosing any of it. Falling from the sky. The transformation. Killing them. It's like watching someone else."

  "Because it wasn't conscious," Stella said. "Your powers activated before you even understood what was happening. You weren't in control."

  "And now?" Arthur pulled back to look at her, his eyes wet. "What if tomorrow, when Celina's here, I lose control again? What if my powers take over and I hurt her?"

  "You won't," Stella said with absolute certainty.

  "You don't know that."

  "Yes, I do." Stella's silver eyes held his, unflinching. "Because you're not the same as you were in that alley. That Arthur had no awareness, no training, no understanding of what he was. You now? You chose to practice. You stopped the transformation the moment the memory hit. That's control, Arthur. Real control."

  "It doesn't feel like control."

  "Control isn't the absence of struggle. It's the ability to stop even when everything in you wants to continue." She released him, sitting back on her heels. "You're learning. Tomorrow will be hard. But you'll manage. I'll be here."

  Arthur wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, feeling embarrassed and exhausted and strangely grateful. His breathing was finally starting to regulate. The tunnel vision had faded. The apartment had stopped spinning.

  Despite everything, Arthur found himself almost smiling back. "Thank you. For..." He gestured vaguely. "For the hug. I didn't know you could do that."

  "Neither did I," Stella admitted. "But it seemed appropriate."

  "It was."

  [End of Chapter Seven]