He almost missed his turn in his excitement. Even though he was in the left lane, Mason quickly cut across to the right, pulling into the chemical factory parking lot.


    “Learn how to drive!” the car driver he cut off shouted at him, honking his horn with irritation. Mason didn’t care. He had far more important matters on his mind.


    He parked his car near the boarded-up entrance of the factory, got out, and walked over to a broken window. With practiced ease, he climbed through, unconcerned about the glass shards—he had cleared them the last time he entered this place. Inside, he took a slow look around. This was his domain—quiet, alone, and empty—save for the abundance of flammable chemicals scattered throughout the entire factory.


    Mason Stone’s pale blue eyes scanned the factory floor as he walked deeper into the shadows, his boots scraping against the dust-covered concrete. At nineteen, he was still a boy in many ways, but his expression told a different story. His blond hair, usually falling messily around his forehead, was tousled from the restless night he had. He was thin but not frail, the kind of build that made him look deceptively harmless. But his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—told anyone who would dare look long enough that he was anything but. He was a force waiting to break free, and the world had no idea what it was about to unleash.


    He walked through the main factory floor, the giant machines on either side of him. The air felt thick with the chemicals that lined the shelves, the promise of danger lurking in the corners of the room. Mason ran his hand along the rusted machines, each one a potential vessel for chaos. The thought made him smile. This place was his canvas, the tools ready to be used. In the silence, the only sound was the faint thump of his heartbeat, quickening with anticipation. This would be the place that made the world burn.


    But he didn’t just want to burn things—he wanted to make people see him, understand him, and realize how little they had ever cared. Fire would give him that. It would make the world acknowledge him, force them to pay attention. He’d show them. As he thought this, memories of his childhood came back to him.


    His father had died when he was young—three, he thought. After that, his mother never gave him even the time of day. She acted like he didn’t exist, until one day. He was six at the time, hiding in the coat closet, the dark and quietness comforting to him. As he sat on the floor, he noticed a small box on the shelf in front of him. Inside, Mason found hundreds of tiny sticks, each topped with a red dot. He picked one up and held it. He cracked the door open some to let more light in. After that, he could finally see what was written on the top of the box. Matches.


    As he studied the box, he saw more writing on the back, though the bigger words didn’t make sense. But he understood the simpler ones: hold, red, stripe, match, fire. The pictures held a clearer picture, though. One showed the stick he was holding, a match, rubbing against the red stripe on the side of the box. He decided to try copying what the box showed, curious about what would happen.


    Though Mason tried for a few minutes, he couldn’t get anything to happen besides the red dot rubbing off. He dropped the match he had and grabbed a new one. He forgot to close the box, and the matches scattered across the floor. He looked at the pictures again and saw another word he somewhat knew: strike, followed by fast. He looked at the match, then at the red stripe, and quickly struck the match against it. This time, the match lit, the fire growing at the top of the stick.


    Mason froze for a second, his breath catching as the flame danced in front of him. His eyes widened, captivated. It was the first real fire he''d ever created. The tiny flicker of light felt like power in his hands, something he could control, something that could change everything. He leaned closer, drawn to the warmth, mesmerized by how the flames twisted and flickered, his mind racing with possibilities.


    As all the possibilities raced through his head, the fire burned lower, and he burned his thumb. He dropped the match from the pain, still lit. It hit the floor, landing amongst all the other matches that had fallen. The one next to it caught fire, which caught the next one, and the chain reaction continued. Mason opened the closet door and backed out, not wanting to get burned, but he kept watching the flames grow. They caught the carpet underneath on fire, and the flames quickly rose, starting to lick the bottoms of the coats. His fascination grew, though his fear began to grow as well. Smoke was starting to pour out now, filling the hall. His mother looked out her room, saw Mason staring into the closet at the smoke, and saw flames starting to leave, following the carpet.


    She ran into the kitchen, grabbed a fire extinguisher, and ran to the closet, spraying the fire. After a few minutes, it was out. The walls were singed, the coats were mostly burned, and the carpet was completely burnt, still smoldering a little. She turned, her eyes locking onto the matchbox in his hand.


    “Did you do this?” she asked, the answer already clear. “Go to your room.”


    Mason did, but not without realizing the fire had gotten him attention from his mother. Finally, he found a way. For the next two years, he kept lighting fires, small at first, but soon growing bolder—inside the house, in mailboxes, even in piles of leaves. Each spark felt like a conversation with an old friend, each flame a moment of connection he hadn’t found anywhere else. Each time he did, he got more and more attention from his mother, until she eventually gave up trying to get him to stop. He was eight when he was put into a foster home. There, he learned over the course of a year how to hide his love for fire, the one friend that never left him. As he got older, Mason found ways to visit his friend without getting in trouble, whether it be starting fires to cook hotdogs or lighting giant bonfires for large, outdoor parties. Because of this, he became popular in school and was invited to almost every party. After he graduated, however, that all changed. He was a nobody again, with no outlet.


    He tried to stop lighting fires; he even went four months without lighting a single one when he was eighteen. But he needed it, and he missed the one true friend he had. One day, he was walking down an alley when he noticed an old box of matches in the trash. Without even thinking, he grabbed them, lit one, and threw it into the can. He watched the fire grow, joy filling him. Mason started fires in trashcans after that, but soon that wasn’t enough. The small fires weren’t enough anymore. It was as if the fire itself was growing impatient, needing more—more fuel, more destruction. Mason’s hands itched for something bigger, something that would make the world feel his power. He moved on to dumpsters, but they weren’t enough. He needed more.


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    That was when he finally did it. Two days after his nineteenth birthday, he took a bottle of alcohol, stuffed an old rag down the top, and lit it with a match. After watching the fire for a second, he threw it at an abandoned house. It caught immediately, the fire growing faster than he had ever seen. This was it—the moment of clarity he had been waiting for. The fire wasn’t just about destruction anymore; it was about control. It was about making the world burn and forcing everyone to look at him. This was his purpose. And now, he was ready to take it further. As to where he would do that? He found his answer three weeks later.


    He looked around the old factory again, the soon-to-be pinnacle of his destruction. No, not destruction. Help. He was helping the fire, and nothing would get in his way. If anything tried, they would be burned.


    He climbed an old, rusty set of stairs and entered the office spaces. He walked past countless cubicles, old yellowing papers scattered around everywhere. He passed a few open barrels of flammable chemicals, which he had placed there, and entered the control room. The old, dusty computers here had no power, but he would get them up and running again. He had to; there were more chemicals that were locked away in large vats. These computers could open them. And this is where he would start the fire, where he would start the beginning of the end.


    He sorted through thousands of cables, soldering, rewiring, and patching anywhere he needed to. By the end of the day, he had almost every wire fixed. He would bring a generator tomorrow and see if he could get it to run the computers. He walked back down to the main floor, the giant machines once again flanking him on either side. He knew these housed thousands of gallons of chemicals, each one a ticking time bomb in a fire. He wouldn’t empty these on the floor; he loved explosions almost as much as fire but never really caused one himself. He was smart, and that would draw too much of the wrong attention. Mason exited the same way he had entered, got in his car, and drove away, but not to his house. There was something he needed to do first.


    He found a random, empty parking lot, got out, and opened the back door of his sedan. Neatly on the backseat, a box sat. He grabbed it, took it out, and set it gently on the ground. Mason opened it, looked inside, and ensured everything he needed was there. He grabbed the box of matches and stuffed them in his pocket, a calm setting over him. Matches were his favorite way to start fires; that one little flame growing into something bigger brought him so much satisfaction. He closed the box and moved it to the front passenger seat for easy access when he got to where he was heading. He got back in the driver''s seat and continued on his way.


    It took him ten minutes to get to the rundown side of town. Mason didn’t usually like to set fires in town; he preferred setting them in the surrounding areas, but he felt safe now. The house he had set three nights ago was more than twenty minutes away from here, on the outskirts of Ashford. Tonight’s fire, though, would be the one that spread.


    He drove another three minutes, scanning the street for the perfect spot. There, on the corner of Witman and Jefferson, it stood. An old, two-story Victorian house, its siding peeling and weathered, revealing dry wood underneath. This was it—the perfect house. He parked out front, the car’s engine humming to a stop as he shut it off. A slight thrill shivered through him. This was more than just another fire—it was an act, a declaration.


    He opened the trunk, retrieving a jug of gasoline and a bottle of fire starter. He carried the materials into the house, his steps deliberate. The porch creaked underfoot as he set the gasoline down, the unmistakable scent of fuel filling the air. He wasn’t nervous—not in the slightest. No, tonight was different. Tonight, everything would change. He poured the gasoline over the front and second stories of the house, the liquid soaking into the cracks of the wood. The smell was intoxicating, familiar, and calming. This was his element. His safe place.


    With precision, he laid a trail of fire starter, a neat line that led to the front lawn. His hands moved with practiced ease, pouring more gasoline onto the porch. He then pulled a matchbook from his pocket, his fingers almost reverent as he flicked it open. Mason took a match, struck it, and watched as the tiny flame grew and crackled at the tip. For a moment, he stood there, savoring the way the light danced across the matchstick.


    Then, without a second thought, he dropped it.


    The fire starter ignited immediately. A wave of heat rolled out, and the flames erupted to consume the porch in seconds. The house followed, burning hungrily. Within five seconds, the flames were licking the windows, curling around the edges, moving faster than he could have imagined. The fire didn’t just burn—it consumed, spread, and made its presence known.


    Mason ran back to his car, his eyes fixed on the inferno behind him. The engine roared to life, and he sped down the street, leaving the flames dancing in his rearview mirror. As the fire spread, he knew it wasn’t just the house that would burn. It was more than that—it was a symbol. The explosion was coming, and he’d orchestrated it all.


    A split second later, the explosion hit. The shockwave rattled his car as the house erupted, pieces of flaming wood and glass showering the street. He let out a manic laugh, adrenaline pumping through his veins. The firestorm was beautiful, a chaos of light and destruction. He felt alive in a way he hadn’t in years.


    The fire was working—he could feel it in his bones. As the house collapsed in on itself, his mind raced ahead, calculating the next steps. The streets were already beginning to fill with people. The fire trucks would be here soon. But by then, it wouldn’t matter. Mason would be long gone.


    He turned the corner, the roar of the flames growing quieter behind him, and felt an almost sick satisfaction rise in his chest. He wasn’t afraid of the destruction he left in his wake. He didn’t fear the damage he caused nor the chaos that would follow. In fact, he thrived on it. People would talk about this fire for days, weeks, and months. They’d search for answers, for explanations, and they would never find any. Not the ones they were looking for, anyway. But Mason knew.


    Tonight was the beginning of something bigger. Something that no one could stop.


    His thoughts shifted back to the factory—the one place where everything would come together. The fire, the chemicals, the machines—it was all about to converge. The control room was almost ready, and once it was, Mason would be able to trigger the explosion he’d planned for weeks.


    The fire at the factory wasn’t just a statement—it was the start of his legacy. This would be the place where the world would see him. See who he was.


    Mason’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, a thrill buzzing beneath his skin. There was no going back now. He was beyond redemption. Beyond saving. And for the first time in his life, he was okay with that.


    As the night stretched on, he thought of the fire he’d just set, of the explosion that had yet to come. His heart raced with anticipation. He could almost taste the smoke in the air. But it wasn’t just the fire itself that exhilarated him. It was the power—the control. Mason finally understood what it meant to feel alive.


    The world had ignored him for so long, but that was about to change. They would all know who Mason Stone was. They would know, without a doubt, that he was the one who burned it all.