She rolls her shoulders, the surface of her arms rippling.

“Okay,” she says lightly, voice warm. “No holding back. I’m basically indestructible, remember?”

You snort. “You say that every time.”

“And I’m right every time.”

She taps her chest with one shining finger. It makes a soft metallic tink.

“Organic metal. Very dramatic. Very durable.”

The simulation in Danger Room begins.

A Sentinel drone drops from above. You react first, launching a controlled blast of your power that knocks it sideways. Cessily flows forward, her body shifting with liquid grace. A missile hits her shoulder — and simply dents her before smoothing back into place.

“See?” she calls over the noise. “Built different.”

You laugh despite yourself, adrenaline buzzing in your heart. Training with her always feels lighter somehow. She doesn’t posture or compete. She absorbs the impact itself, literally and emotionally.

You pivot, focusing energy into your palms.

“Hit me,” she says all of a sudden.

You hesitate. “Are you sure—”

“Hit. Me.”

Trust.

You unleash a concentrated strike, stronger than usual, driven by the thrill of improvement, by wanting to prove you’re getting better.

It connects.

For a second, everything is normal — her body absorbing the blow, metal warping—

Then the sound changes.

Not the dull impact you’re used to.

A sharp, brittle crack that made you flinch.

Cessily stumbles.

The silver along her ribs fractures — a spiderweb line racing across her side before sealing over again. But too slowly. It made the simulation to freeze automatically. The holographic city blacks out.

Silence crashes down.

You stare.

“Cess?”

She’s breathing harder. Her metallic skin looks uneven. Not smooth.

“I’m fine,” she says quickly.

But her eyes still expressive beneath the silver metallic veil that couldn't hide embarrassment.

You step closer.

“I said I’m fine.”

Her form shifts back toward a more human tone, still metallic, but dulled, like tarnished silver.