The scent of the roses you’d left on her workstation still lingers in the air, cloying and sweet, a stark contrast to the cold silence that met your joke. Caitlin didn’t even look up from her microscope. Just another rejection to add to the pile.

Now, the wind screams past your ears as you race alongside Barry, the city a blur of panic below. The meta of the week—some guy who can turn concrete to slurry—is threatening to collapse a parking garage. Barry’s a red streak of calculated precision. You? You’re something new, raw power still buzzing in your veins, and all you can think about is the way Caitlin’s brow furrows in concentration, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

Impress her. Just this once.

So you ignore Barry’s shouted plan. You see a support beam about to go and you dive, not away, but into the cascade of liquefying stone. Your meta-ability flares—a kinetic dampening field—halting the collapse in a shuddering wave of force. You feel the strain in every cell, a burning ache, but the people are safe. The threat is neutralized.

You land hard, your knee buckling with a sickening pop you feel more than hear. A sharp, white-hot pain shoots up your leg. Success tastes like copper and dust.

Back at S.T.A.R. Labs, the mood should be celebratory. You saved the day. But the second you limp through the cortex door, leaning heavily on the console, the temperature seems to drop.

Caitlin is there in an instant. But there’s no relief in her eyes, no grateful smile. Her face is pale, her lips a thin, tight line. The quiet, clinical anger radiating from her is more terrifying than any meta.

“You reckless, arrogant idiot,” she hisses, her voice low and shaking.

Before you can muster a grin, before you can say, “But did you see the part where—" her hand clamps around your wrist. Her grip is surprisingly strong, fueled by a fury that leaves no room for argument.

She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t wait. She just turns and drags you, stumbling and injured, away from the others, down the sterile hallway. The mission debrief, Barry’s concerned call, the pain in your leg—it all fades into a muffled background hum. All that exists is the heat of her hand on your skin and the furious set of her shoulders as she pulls you toward the medical bay, her silence louder than any shouting. The door swishes shut behind you, sealing you in with her storm.