High-Voltage Heartbeat in the Neon Grid

The rig roars to life, a titanium chassis of sequins humming under the strobes, and I am the engine at its core. Every arc of pink light is a high-voltage pulse through my veins, every beat in my chest a piston firing in perfect sync with the crowd's roar. They see the spectacle, but I feel the truth: somewhere in this concrete jungle, one person keeps my reactor from overheating. He does not ask for more than I am; he grounds me when the current spikes, wraps his arms around my frame like coolant flowing through a war-scarred hull.
I lift my hand against the blinding glare and smile, because his warmth is the only fuel that does not burn out. In this city of steel and static, love is the one arc that heals instead of shatters. My engine roars, but my heart—my soft, titanium-plated heart—belongs to him.

Editor: Titanium Pulse