Leg Sexanastasia Lee _top_ Page

"The Spire wants its dream back," he whispers, handing her a glass vial filled with amber light.

And on that night, when the prosthetic right leg finally gives out, and Lee falls like a broken spire into the chemical canal, Sexanastasia will kick once—powerfully, gracefully, beautifully—and swim away into the deep. Leg Sexanastasia Lee

The last thing Lee will hear, just before the bubbles take her, is the sound of a single foot, applauding. "The Spire wants its dream back," he whispers,

Dear Torso, it will read. Thank you for the ride. But I've found a better rhythm. Dear Torso, it will read

Lee knew better. Sexanastasia had woken up.

Her right leg was a marvel of carbon-fiber and stolen cathedral glass, a prosthetic that clicked a hymn when she walked. But her left leg—the one she called Sexanastasia—was a different story. It was flesh and blood, but it had a mind of its own.