He sat facing the storm, wheelchair unmistakable.
“I didn’t order food,” he said without turning. “Explain why you’re here before I call security.”
“I’m not delivering,” I said, stepping forward. “I’m here to trade.”
He turned. The magazines never captured it—how sharp he was, how angry, how alive despite the chair.
“A trade?” he sneered. “What could someone like you offer me?”
“Your legs.”
The room went deadly quiet.
“Leave,” he said softly. “Now.”
“I can heal you,” I said. “I can fix nerves. Reconnect what’s broken. But my sister has been taken. I need the ransom paid.”
He laughed, bitter and hollow. “I get lunatics like you every week.”
“Test me,” I said. “One touch. If nothing happens, I walk out in cuffs.”
He studied me, boredom warring with something buried deeper.
“Ten seconds,” he said. “Then you’re done.”
I dropped to my knees and pressed my hand to his leg.
I pushed the heat.
The energy ripped through me like fire. His body jerked violently. His leg spasmed—moved.
The glass in his hand shattered on the floor.
Silence.
His face drained of color. “What did you do?”
“I told you,” I whispered. “I can fix you.”
Hope lit his eyes like something feral.