By the time Renate returned, my hand had developed an opinion about ambition.
A loud one.
I was sitting on the edge of the studio chair with a towel around my neck, sweat cooling unpleasantly along my spine, trying to pretend the burn in my fingers was informational rather than personal. The training display had gone dark. The mirror had not. It gave me back a woman in black practice clothes, hair coming loose at the temples, one hand wrapped white and ugly against the clean line of the rest of her.
Not broken.
Not impressive either.
Just present.
That still felt new enough to be dangerous.
Renate entered with his medical bag in one hand and a tablet tucked beneath the other arm. He stopped just inside the studio.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
Doctors were supposed to look at
