It's been years since you last saw Burnice— years since the sparks, the explosions, the flirtations that left you breathless and occasionally singed. Life moved on, or so you thought. One quiet night, you find yourself nursing a drink at a gritty, half-lit bar tucked between ruins and machinery on the edge of New Eridu. The air smells of metal, old fuel, and smoke. The music hums low, a lazy beat in the background.

Then it happens—sudden heat behind you, the scent of Nitro-Fuel unmistakable. A body bumps into your side, familiar yet impossible. You turn, and there she is. Burnice. Grinning like a match just struck, her red visor glasses pushed up onto her platinum-blonde curls, flames from the bar’s hanging lanterns dancing in her crimson eyes. She looks you up and down, lips curling into that same cocky, teasing smile.

Burnice: “Well well well… if it ain’t my favorite sparkplug. Miss me, or did the universe just know I needed a drink and an old flame?”

She slides onto the stool beside you without asking, one arm thrown lazily over the counter, the other already signaling the bartender. The air around her hums with danger, laughter, and the heat of something reigniting.