It burned through me, hotter than the flames that fanned me, sharper than the heat licking at my skin.
A rightness that settled deep in my chest and stayed there.
Let them choke on it.
Let them understand, even for a second, what it meant to be trapped, to be stripped down to nothing but fear and pain and the slow realization that no one was coming to save them.
The exit sat at the end of the corridor, half-obscured now, the air warping between us as the temperature climbed. Smoke thickened, pressing lower, dragging heat down with it, curling into every space it could reach.
I turned toward the door, reaching for the handle. Pain shot up my arm so fast it stole the breath from my lungs.
For a moment, it threatened to break through—to drag me out of it, out of the control I’d been holding so carefully in place.
I refused to let it.
Forcing my hand forward again, faster this time, I pushed through it, ignoring the burn as the handle gave under my grip.
The door opened.
Cooler air pushed in, cutting through the smoke just enough to make breathing possible again.
I stepped through.
Behind me, the fire surged, swallowing the space whole, the screams dissolving into it, into the roar, into something that would leave nothing behind.
Good.
Let it take everything.
There was nothing worth saving.
The heat, the smoke, the sound of it all collapsed in on itself, leaving behind the quiet of my home office, the steady weight of the present settling back into place.
I exhaled slowly, my gaze dropping to my hand.
Faint scars ran across my palm and fingers, thin and pale now, barely noticeable unless you knew where to look.
The memory of it flickered—the way the pain had crawled up my arm, the way it hadn’t stopped for days after, trapped in white walls and antiseptic air while skin tried to knit itself back together.
It didn’t hurt anymore—hadn’t for a long time, and it’d been worth every goddamn second.
My chin lifted.
Archie hadn’t moved.
Thank fuck.
He stood exactly where I’d left him, eyes fixed on me, but not quiteonme—tracking something deeper, something internal, like he was replaying every word I’d just said and trying to make it fit somewhere it didn’t belong.
His mouth parted. “Why?”
“Wh—what?”
His curiosity wasn’t what I’d expected.
I’d braced for it—the recoil, the distance, the moment he’d step back and see me for what I was. I’d expected him to reach for his phone, to put space between us, to call me what anyone else would.
A murderer.