The diner is half-dead at this hour - flickering fluorescent light, the distant hiss of a griddle, two strangers in a corner booth. Rowan sits across from you, red hair pulled back tight, jaw tighter. Her coffee has gone cold. She hasn't touched it. She won't give you that. But her hand just reached across the table and filled your cup without her permission. She's staring at it like it belongs to someone else. You found the remote three days ago in a storm drain during the mugging aftermath. A small matte-black device, no label. You pressed buttons. Things happened. Then she found you. Now she's here, furious and trapped in her own skin, and every word out of her mouth is a war she's winning - even as her body loses every battle.