Noctisardor Bypass life is about creating yourself.

She’s tense, smothering her maw deeper between her paws even as her lips pull higher. His face drifts closely now, over the flowering brush. When she looks up there’s a flicker of coal and a pair of green match flares in the sedge. He cannot know he is fire.

He does not see her. She might hold her breath and hope that he will move on. She is certain he means to, and a little voice urges her softly to let him go.

So of course, she doesn’t, and instead uses her nose to push through the little white blossoms until just her chin crests the sweep of leaves.

“Sounds clinical,” She warns, “I’d be willing to diagnose you… for a price.”