The sky had turned red that night. It wasn’t the soft red of a sunset, but the angry, pulsing crimson of a wound that wouldn’t close. Flames climbed high into the darkness, licking the clouds until even the heavens looked like they were burning in fever.

  People ran through the streets—shadows draped in orange light—screaming, praying, searching for loved ones. The entire city had become a storm of fire, and the wind carried the scent of scorched wood and broken dreams.

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  And in the middle of it all, I stood still.

  I was the only silent thing in a world that was screaming. I stood watching, listening, feeling a hollow coldness in my chest while the world around me melted.

  No one there knew the truth.

  The fire swallowing their lives had started with a single match in my hand.