It was yet another day at the Stock Exchange, really. With a heritage dating back as early as 1585, the Frankfurt Stock Exchange was unquestionably one of the world's foremost financial institutions. Though the methods had changed over the centuries, the simple facts were the same- fortunes made and lost within moments, the financial word divided between the quick and the dead.

Outwardly it was the same for Hannelore Buchholz, a middle-aged woman married to her career. She was, as always, seated between Schumann and Nguyen, having orders barked to her by her boss Weisser. Billions of Euros she would never see or touch passed tantalizingly close before her, untouchable despite being only inches away on her computer screen. Pantsuit, earpiece, screen, it was all there, all comfortingly familiar.

But today things were a bit different.

Unnoticed beneath her desk, Hannelore was practicing with her free hand. It had been two months since she had figured out what she could do with her entire body, and she had spent a couple nights afterwards at the old railyard, cautiously lifting coaches when she was sure no one was around. But she was unsure of the extent to which she could control her transformation, and so here she was today. Her left hand out of sight under her desk, she tried to will it to turn into titanium- her left hand and nothing else. Her educated, orderly mind insisted on these tests, it was good to know her limits and capabilities as she searched for an actual use for this strange ability. 

She concentrated, eyes squinting, brow sweating. Perhaps too much.

"Buchholz!" Weisser, her supervisor, snapped. Despite his dreamy expression and wooly cardigan, the old man always knew when someone's attention lapsed, even momentarily.

She automatically spun around, looking guilty and apologetic, as she had done a hundred times before. But this time was different, of course. She miscalculated her turn.

And her hand tore through the wooden desk without difficulty, simply the horrendous sound of wood splintering and tearing. Guiltily, she looked down to her left hand, only briefly taking in Schumann's open mouth or Nguyen's subtler arched eyebrow. She expected to see metal.

But instead, her hand was only flesh and blood.

"Frau Buchholz," Weisser said after a long moment, staring at the massive hole in the wooden desk. "Perhaps you might like to return home for the remainder of the day?" It was a rare display of charity from the unforgiving old man, doubtlessly brought on simply by confusion. 

Nevertheless, Hannelore took it. It would be smarter for her to practice at home, anyways. "Yes, Herr Weisser, perhaps I should," she said humbly, gathering up her few items as Nguyen and Schumann stared at the torn desk in confusion. She left quickly, avoiding eye contact with anyone. The confused silence was soon overtaken by the sound of typing once more, though. The quick and the dead.