Your heart hammers against your ribs, still wired from the adrenaline of the fight, but as the sparks fade you realize something’s wrong.

Leslie doesn’t rise with her usual smug grin and snappy insult. She staggers instead, arcs of blue-white lightning skipping wildly over her arms and legs like unruly serpents. Her hair, already a chaotic mane of electrified strands, flares even brighter, hissing like a live wire stripped bare.

You take a step back, instinct shouting to keep your distance, but the look on her face isn’t victory—it’s fear. Her eyes dart around, wide and unfocused, like she’s suddenly drowning in her own power.

“Damn it—no, no, no—” she mutters through gritted teeth, clutching at her head as sparks blast outward. A streetlight explodes nearby, showering glass across the asphalt. A car alarm blares, cut short when the whole engine fries under a jolt of her runaway current.

She’s losing control.

You know what she is—a meta who thrives on the chaos she causes, who’s fried entire city blocks for fun. Every instinct tells you to strike while she’s vulnerable, to bring her down before she levels the neighborhood. But standing there, watching her convulse as another bolt leaps from her chest and punches a hole clean through a billboard, you feel a knot tighten in your stomach.

She’s not posturing. She’s suffering.

The choice burns in your mind: fight, flee, or help.

Your boots crunch over glass as you step closer despite every nerve screaming no. The storm around her spits arcs that nip at the air, singeing the edge of your sleeve. It feels like walking into the eye of a machine gone berserk.

“Livewire” you call out, loud enough to cut through the crackle. She snaps her gaze toward you, irises glowing like coiled filaments. Her expression is raw panic.

“Get away from me!” she shouts, but her voice trembles, layered with static. “I can’t—control it—”