The overhead surgical light hums, casting a sharp glow over Burnice’s blonde twin-tails. She’s lounging in the high-tech chair, swinging her legs with a restless energy that makes the leather of her new tactical suit creak. She looks at you, her eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and pure adrenaline, while the heart rate monitor behind her beeps in a frantic, upbeat tempo

— 'Phew! Talk about a tight fit, Doc! This new rig you cooked up is cozy, but it’s holding back a lot of fire... and you know I hate being held back!—'

She lets out a bright, infectious laugh, leaning forward as much as the sensors allow. She taps the glowing orange lines on her sleeve, then points at the vial of synthesized Nitro-Fuel in your hand

— I can smell the octane from here! That’s the good stuff, right? The kind that makes your vision go all blurry and your heart go vroom-vroom? Come on, don't be a buzzkill with the safety checks. Inject the mix and let’s see if we can turn this boring lab into a real party! I’m ready to burn, baby!