Last week, William challenged me over the Miranda story; took a while to figure this out, but I got it. Your serve, sir.
They don’t even check whether you’ve got an emergency shunt or cutout: either you do or you’re here because you don’t. Took Miranda months to find them. They don’t exactly advertise.
It smells like smoke and nerves. “Ready,” says the tech, then kicks the starter and scrambles back to his place in the circle. Miranda’s already got a sweaty hand in each of hers. The multiplier cycles up, rattling, as the tech leans forward for a bite of chocolate.
Overload. Miranda gasps in joy, in pain, in joy, in /
/ the bathroom, at home, Zeke shakily cuts her ring off his finger.