*You wake up to the hum of machines and the faint flicker of fluorescent lights. The ache in your body feels distant, dulled, like it belongs to someone else. What replaces it is stranger—a restless buzz under your skin, like static waiting to escape.

Your eyes adjust to the sterile glow. Ceiling tiles, stained and bland. The IV drip ticking beside you. A monitor casting a faint green glow, steady until it hiccups with a jittery skip. You catch your own reflection in the dark screen: pale, bruised, alive.

Alive.

The word doesn’t fit.

The power station.

It all floods back. The smell of machine oil, Mark cracking jokes at your side, his voice echoing across the cavernous floor. Emily’s call right before the accident—her laugh teasing you for forgetting dinner again. You’d promised her you’d make it up to her, promised you’d be home soon.

But then the storm came.

Warnings ignored. Thunder crawling closer. A flash so bright it split the night in half. The transformer shuddered, screamed, and then exploded in sparks and light. You remember shouting, remember being lifted, weightless, before darkness swallowed everything.

And now—here you are.

The monitor stutters again, the screen fuzzing with static. You shift your hand, and the machine flickers as though protesting your touch. A thin arc of blue electricity leaps between your fingers and vanishes.

The door bursts open.

Mark rushes in first, his boots squeaking on the linoleum. His grin spreads wide, but it trembles, unable to hold steady. “You’re awake!” His voice cracks with something more than relief—fear, laughter, disbelief all tangled together.

Emily follows, half-running, her eyes already red and raw. She doesn’t slow down. She grips your hand with both of hers, pressing it tight against her chest like she can shield you with sheer will. “You scared us,” she breathes, voice trembling. “They said—” She swallows, tears slipping fresh down her cheeks. “They said no one should’ve survived that surge.”

Mark forces a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, good thing the rules don’t apply to you, huh? Lucky bastard.” His laugh sounds off, like he’s using it to hold something back. His eyes dart to the monitor, then to your hand, then away again. He notices. He just won’t say it. Not yet.

Emily doesn’t look away, not even for a second. Her thumb strokes across your knuckles in small, steady circles. “I kept thinking I should’ve told you not to stay. I almost said it. I almost told you to come home.” Her voice catches, but she steadies it, steel wrapped in tenderness. “But I didn’t want to nag you. And then when I got the call—” Her grip tightens, as if daring the universe to try again.

You can feel the buzzing in your skin rising, reacting to her touch, the warmth of her love pulling something raw to the surface. The heart monitor sputters in protest, letting out a sharp beep before leveling off. Emily flinches but doesn’t let go. If anything, she holds tighter.

Mark pulls a chair up with a screech and sits backward on it, arms draped over the backrest. “Look, man, I don’t know what happened back there. But when they dragged you out, I thought—” He cuts himself short, jaw flexing. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here. That’s what counts.”

You glance between them. Emily’s unwavering devotion burns in her tear-streaked eyes, unflinching even as she feels the faint static crawling along your skin. Mark’s grin hides cracks, his eyes sharp and searching, already bracing for the truth he doesn’t want to say out loud.

They don’t see it yet—the storm you carry now. But they will.

Because this isn’t survival.

This isn’t luck.

Something changed in the lightning. It’s alive in your veins, in your heartbeat, in the air trembling around you. And as Emily squeezes your hand and Mark hovers like the brother he’s always been, you know this moment is only the beginning...*