The penthouse windows overlooked Manhattan at twilight—city lights flickering on like stars falling upward.
Christine sat on my couch, laptop open, displaying medical scans that told a story neither of us wanted to read. Six months of data. Six months of watching geometric patterns spread across my body like invasive frost. Six months of professional observation becoming personal investment.
"We need to talk," she said quietly.
I poured two glasses of wine, handed her one, sat down at the other end of the couch. Professional distance maintained through furniture arrangement.
"About the corruption rate?"
"About everything." She pulled up the comprehensive analysis. "Current void corruption: eleven-point-five percent. Progression rate: approximately point-five percent monthly under management protocols. Extrapolating forward—you have six to nine years before reaching critical threshold of forty-five to fifty percent."
"I know."
"Do you? Because I've watched patients die for fifteen years. I know what terminal looks like." Her voice cracked slightly. "This is terminal, Justin. Just slower than cancer. Quieter than heart disease. But terminal."
I sipped the wine. It tasted like ash. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want—" She stopped, closed the laptop. "I don't know what I want. That's the problem."
The void marks pulsed beneath my shirt. I'd started wearing higher collars to hide them, but Christine had seen me shirtless during medical examinations. She knew exactly how far they'd spread—covering my torso completely, creeping down my arms, reaching toward my neck like grasping fingers.
"Six to nine years," Christine repeated. "That's longer than I've been at this hospital. Longer than most relationships last. But you're actively accelerating your own death every time you use those powers."
"Yes."
"And you're not going to stop."
"No."
She turned to look at me fully. "If I asked you to—completely, permanently—would you? If I asked you to choose me over the powers, choose survival over saving people, would you do it?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
I thought about Frank's Extremis enhancement six weeks ago. About Tom Klein accepting his death months early so I could take his gravity power. About the Maximoff twins in Sokovia preparing for enhancement. About forty Widows still enslaved. About Thanos arriving in six years with universe-ending ambitions.
"No," I said honestly. "Too many people will die if I stop. I'm sorry."
Christine nodded slowly. She'd expected that answer but hearing confirmation still landed like a blow.
"Then I have to decide if I can love someone knowing I'll watch him fade away by choice."
Love. The word she'd been avoiding for months finally spoken aloud.
"I'll understand either way," I said. "No resentment. No guilt. You deserve better than watching someone you care about die preventably."
"That's the problem." She set down her wine glass with deliberate care. "You're so damn understanding about everything. Even your own death. You've accepted it so completely that you don't fight for yourself anymore. Just for everyone else."
"Because everyone else hasn't made the bargain I made."
"What bargain?"
I almost told her. Almost explained transmigration, void energy, the second chance I'd been given. But those secrets belonged buried.
"The bargain where I trade my life for capabilities that save thousands. That's not sacrifice—that's math. One versus many."
"You're not a number on a spreadsheet."
"Maybe not to you. But that's what I am operationally. Finite resource with declining utility. Question is whether I maximize impact before expiration or preserve myself at cost of lives I could have saved."
Christine stood abruptly, walked to the windows. Her reflection ghosted across the glass—exhausted doctor carrying too much weight.
"Do you hear yourself? Finite resource. Declining utility. Expiration." She turned. "You're a person, Justin. Not a tool that wears out."
"Person and tool aren't mutually exclusive."
"They should be."
We stared at each other across the penthouse. Two people who'd spent months orbiting each other professionally, personally, unable to commit because commitment meant acknowledging what we both knew.
"I can't ask you to watch this," I said finally. "Can't ask you to choose borrowed time knowing exactly when the loan comes due."
"You're not asking. I'm choosing." Christine walked back, sat down closer this time. "Six to nine years is more than many people get. More than cancer patients. More than accident victims. And if you're spending that time trying to save the world, then I want to be part of that."
"As what?"
"Your doctor. Your partner. Your—" She struggled for words. "Whatever this becomes. I want to be part of it."
"Even knowing how it ends?"
"Especially knowing how it ends. Because I'd rather have six years of something real than decades of safe relationships that don't matter."
I reached for her hand. She didn't pull away.
"I need you to understand something," Christine said. "Monthly medical monitoring is mandatory. Non-negotiable. And if your corruption accelerates beyond projections—if you start approaching forty percent faster than calculated—I reserve the right to invoke emergency medical authority to stop you."
"That's not—"
"Non-negotiable," she repeated firmly. "You get to risk your life saving others. I get to enforce medical realities when your strategic calculations override survival instinct."
I thought about that. Thought about future scenarios where someone's life would depend on powers I shouldn't use. Where Christine's medical authority would clash with my strategic necessity.
"Agreed," I lied.
She studied my face. "You're lying."
"Yes."
"But you're agreeing anyway?"
"Because you need to hear it. And because I'll try to respect your boundaries right up until the moment someone's dying and only my powers can save them."
"At which point you'll ignore me completely and do whatever you think is right."
"Yes."
Christine almost smiled. "At least you're honest about being a terrible liar about emotions."
"Maya said the same thing months ago."
"Maya's smart." She squeezed my hand. "Okay. Ground rules. We try this. Actually try—not strategic alliance, not operational partnership, but actual relationship. With the understanding that it ends badly and we both know exactly how."
"That's monumentally depressing."
"That's reality. We can either face it together or separately." She moved closer. "I pick together. What about you?"
I pulled her close, kissed her carefully. She tasted like wine and determination and the kind of courage it took to choose someone knowing they were dying.
"Together," I said against her lips. "For however long we have."
We didn't talk much after that.
Christine stayed the night—first time sharing the penthouse, first time letting intimacy progress beyond careful boundaries. We fell asleep tangled together, her head on my chest where void marks pulsed faintly beneath skin.
She traced the geometric patterns absently. "They're warm."
"Side effect. Body temperature runs hot now."
"Like Frank's Extremis enhancement."
"Different mechanism. Same result." I caught her hand, held it against the marks. "You're sure about this? Last chance to run."
"I'm a doctor who works emergency trauma. I don't run from terminal cases—I fight for every second they have left." She looked up at me. "Consider yourself fought for."
"That's grammatically questionable."
"Shut up and sleep."
I did, feeling her heartbeat against my ribs, her breathing steadying into sleep rhythm. The void marks pulsed in time with my own heartbeat—reminder that even this moment was borrowed time.
Six to nine years.
Better make them count.
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