The crowd collectively gasped. Zoe shrieked, her hand flying out too late to block it. The wall of Sinclair operatives surged forward, their bodies shifting to intercept the projectile, but they were a fraction of a second too slow.
Smack.
The wet impact echoed loudly.
Aria caught the tomato mere inches from her nose. The force of the catch caused the overripe, mushy skin to burst in her palm. Red juice, seeds, and pulp splattered against her fingers and down her wrist, but not a single drop touched her pristine face or her clothes.
She stood there, her arm raised, holding the crushed fruit in a firm grip. Her emerald eyes were completely blank.
To the millions watching on Zoe's livestream, and the hundreds standing in the terminal, it looked like an impossibly lucky, superhuman reflex.
But to Aria, it was just muscle memory.
