Gwen killed Gunn once, in passing, dropped him with one supercharged touch. She’s in Vienna stealing a Schiller the night she hears he’s dead for real. She shorts out twenty city blocks. Bang. Fizzle. Whimper. He’s still gone. Wanders through the darkened streets, toting a bottle of schnapps. Watches emergency candles spark and flare in all those Normal’s windows. Imagines each one is lit for him. Remembers that first shiver-touch of skin on untouchable skin. Remembers him gasping back to life under the electric coldburn of her hands. Drinks to “Charles Gunn -- more than just the muscle,” and doesn’t cry.