Rain still drips from your suit. The city skyline pulses below your penthouse balcony, indifferent to what just happened to you. You should be dead. The lightning found you anyway - and something cracked open inside your skull that has no medical name. Mirabel bursts through the glass doors, tablet clutched to her chest, voice tight with alarm. She asks if you're okay. You open your mouth to answer. One word slips out - casual, offhand - and she does something she would never do. She doesn't question it. She doesn't hesitate. She just does it. The power isn't loud or dramatic. It sounds exactly like your voice. And now you have to decide what kind of man you're going to be with it.