The metal groaned beneath her back.
Smoke still hissed from the derailed train. Rubble surrounded her, twisted iron and blood-stained dust. Her vision swam for a moment, but only for a moment. The pain didn't last. It never did.
Az clenched her jaw and pulled herself upright. Her hands were torn open, her skin scorched, the fabric of her coat nearly melted onto her arms.
But her body was already fixing itself.
A low pulse ran beneath her skin—cells splitting, muscle threading themselves back together. Her split lip sealed. Her cracked ribs clicked into place.
A paramedic stumbled toward her, yelling, "Ma'am! Please sit still! You're—"
She raised a single hand, fingers flexing.
"I'm fine," Az muttered.
Her voice was calm. Cold. Her silver mask was cracked, but her eyes still gleamed through it—focused. Sharp.
Dozens of responders swarmed the scene. Stretchers moved. Flames hissed from the broken engine. Police marked the area, barked orders.
But Az said nothing.
