Two hours of Evelyn's relentless lightning training had left me looking like a man who had lost a fight with a storm and then been dragged through a hedge backward. My hair, usually a sleek curtain of black silk, now stuck up in wild, singed tufts. My uniform was more tattered rags than fabric, and my face—well, it was best not to dwell on the patchwork of minor burns and bruises.
I staggered into the washroom of the training facility, splashed cold water on my face, and glared at my haggard reflection in the mirror. The System, ever helpful, chimed in with its usual brand of snide commentary.
[You look like a lightning rod that got struck one too many times.]
I flipped off the mirror and left.
The Cafeteria Scheme
