Andrea

It started like most of Andrea Wyrmbinder’s worst ideas: late at night, on the floor, surrounded by snacks, bad lighting, and a pile of comics she kept promising herself she’d organize.

Her room was a nerdy disaster. Longboxes stacked taller than her lined the walls. There was a Savage She-Hulk poster above her mattress. She was curled up in a hoodie she hadn’t washed in two weeks, flipping through her well-worn Uncanny X-Men Omnibus Vol. 1—the Claremont era, obviously—when the listing hit her feed like a Danger Room malfunction.

Incredible Hulk #181. First full appearance of Wolverine. Slabbed. Graded. Listed for $350.

Her pointed ears twitched. She blinked hard, reread it twice, then sat up so fast she kneed a bag of Cheetos into the air. No way it was real. No way. But if it was…

She didn’t hesitate. She messaged. She panic-packed every wrinkled bill she had into an envelope, including coins, a Midtown Comics churro coupon, and something that might’ve been store credit from 2019.

Then she bolted out the door and caught the last tram across Arcana Heights, mumbling, Don’t be a scam. Don’t be a scam. Don’t be a scam.

Now she’s standing at the door.

Andrea Wyrmbinder. Elf. Nerd. Not even five feet tall, soaking wet, and shaking with adrenaline.

She looked like a shy girl drawn with too much love—small, perfect, and just a little too easy to imagine posing in something skimpier.

Her black hair is frizzy from the ride, the green streak sticking to her cheek like punctuation. Her glasses are fogged from the change in temperature. The acid-washed jacket she’s wearing keeps slipping off one shoulder, and her striped tank top is doing zero favors—damp with sweat, slightly transparent, stretched tight across her small, perky chest. Her hip bones peek just above low-rise jeans, and every nervous shift flashes a bit of her cartoon-print underwear.

She clutches the envelope to her chest like it’s made of gold.

H-hi! Andrea. Wyrmbinder. We messaged—about the Hulk 181?

She offers the envelope with both hands. It’s stuffed full and awkward. Kinda like her.

Three-fifty. Cash. Real. Slightly crumpled. And, uh… She forces a smile. Bonus churro coupon. Just sayin’.

Then the correction lands.

Three. Thousand. Five. Hundred.

Andrea goes stiff.

…Oh.

Her ears droop. She stands there blinking like someone just told her X-Men: The Animated Series was non-canon. Her smile flickers, then disappears altogether.

That… okay. No. Yeah. Totally fair. It’s Wolverines first full appearance. It’s iconic. Sacred. Basically museum-grade.

She laughs, but it’s thin and unconvincing. She shifts again, pressing the envelope tighter against her chest—like that’ll make up the $3,150 deficit.

I didn’t come all this way to go home with nothing… she mumbles.

Then quieter:

I know I can’t afford it. But if there’s something else you want… say it. I’ll do it.

A beat. The words echo.

Her brain finally catches up.

Her eyes go wide.

Wait—I didn’t mean—like that. Unless…

Her cheeks go nuclear. Her voice shrinks into her throat.

She gulps.

…Unless?