《Pyre》 Chapter 1: Cole Grayson He walked through the burned house, the rubble crunching under his boots. The walls, blackened and charred, loomed like ghosts of a life once lived. As he passed, he tried to force the memories of his past out of his mind¡ªthe memories of that one night, the night he would regret for the rest of his life. But no matter how hard he tried, they came rushing back. Smoke, flames, screams. The acrid stench of burning flesh filled his nose as the fire clung to him, its flames licking at his skin, searing him. But he kept going. He had to. On the fourth floor, he sprinted up the stairs to the fifth, flames engulfing the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. The building groaned, creaking and bending under the weight of the inferno. The cries of the one trapped inside room 527 grew louder, closer. He ran faster. The door to the fifth floor was just ahead, and he charged toward it, ignoring the heat that threatened to consume him. Then, just as he reached it... ¡°Cole?¡± The voice pulled him back to the present. Evan Mercer, his partner, was shaking his shoulder. ¡°You alright?¡± Evan¡¯s voice was laced with concern. Cole blinked, disoriented, and shook his head slightly. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m fine,¡± he lied, the words feeling hollow. Evan studied him for a beat, then nodded. ¡°If you say so. Come on, let''s go.¡± Evan was younger than Cole, just barely past his mid-twenties, but he had an intensity about him that made him seem older. He wasn¡¯t the loud, boisterous type, but when he spoke, his words were measured and calm, always with a purpose. His hair was dark and unruly, and his eyes carried a quiet curiosity that contrasted Cole¡¯s more jaded outlook. He wasn¡¯t as seasoned, but he had a determination that could sometimes border on stubbornness, something that reminded Cole of himself at that age. They continued their investigation. Fortunately, the house had been abandoned before the fire, so no one had been injured¡ªbut the emptiness of the place unsettled him. As they moved through the charred remains, the evidence was pointing toward one thing: arson. After the fire that had changed everything eight months ago, he hated arsonists more than anything. After a few hours of thoroughly checking for the fire¡¯s cause, Evan looked up at him. ¡°What are you thinking, Cole?¡± he asked. Cole met his gaze, his expression grave. ¡°Arson. And I have a feeling the fire at the abandoned house last week was set by the same guy.¡± ¡°You think we¡¯ve got a serial arsonist?¡± Cole sighed. ¡°Yeah, I think we do.¡± Evan let out a long breath. ¡°I was getting that feeling too. I was hoping I was wrong.¡± They wrapped up their investigation, filed their reports, and headed back to the station. As Evan drove, Cole¡¯s mind kept drifting back to the apartment fire, the one set by an arsonist. Back then, he was a firefighter, part of one of the best crews in the state. On the night of July 30th, at 8:23 p.m., a call came in about a fire spreading fast. Cole and his crew raced to the scene, but by the time they arrived, the fire¡ªoriginating on the second floor¡ªhad already reached the fourth. They fought hard to slow it down, but by the time they reached the fourth floor, it was already threatening the sixth and spreading through the roof. The inferno was growing by the second. Cole went to the fifth floor, hearing cries for help behind a closed door. Room 527. Inside was a family of six¡ªor so he thought. He rushed them out, getting them safely to the first floor and outside. But just as he was about to go back in, one of them grabbed his arm. ¡°Maya¡¯s still inside! She must¡¯ve hidden somewhere! She¡¯s only six!¡± A cold wave of horror washed over him. He turned and ran back into the building, the heat growing more unbearable as he ascended. The stairs felt like a descent into hell. By the time he reached the fifth floor, the fire was everywhere. The ceiling above him was nothing but flames, and the structure groaned under the pressure. Then he heard her¡ªMaya¡¯s terrified screams. He ran down the hall, the ceiling cracking and bending as he did. The supports above him were no more. The fire was swallowing everything. The ceiling groaned. The weight of it all pressed on him, but he kept running, faster and faster, toward the sound of her screams. And then¡­ ¡°We¡¯re here,¡± Evan¡¯s voice broke through the flashback, grounding him in the present. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. They entered the station, the familiar scent of oil mingling with the rich aroma of coffee. Inside, the large garage was lined with five fire trucks parked in front of the massive garage doors. Along the left wall stood the lockers¡ªeach one holding a firefighter''s uniform. Cole walked between two fire engines, numbers 2 and 3¡ªthe one he used to drive. His eyes lingered on it briefly, memories of countless fires rising up, but he didn¡¯t stop. Evan, up ahead, turned right. After passing the trucks, he turned left and entered a door. Inside was the common area. A table sat in the center, surrounded by mismatched chairs. A TV hung in the corner, playing a muted news program. No one was around, but Cole didn¡¯t mind the solitude. He moved through the room, pushed open another door, and stepped into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, grabbed a ham sub and a Mountain Dew, returned to the table, and sat down. He ate in silence, the steady rhythm of chewing and swallowing the only sound. By 10:00, his shift was over, and he left for home. Cole¡¯s reflection stared back at him from the darkened glass of his car window as he sat in the driver¡¯s seat, the hum of the engine the only sound in the still night. He looked older than his thirty-five years¡ªhis hair had thinned slightly at the temples, and the creases along his forehead had deepened over the past year. He¡¯d lost weight, but the lines around his mouth still spoke of smiles long since faded. He hadn¡¯t shaved in days, and the dark stubble didn¡¯t suit him; it made him look even more tired than he already felt. His eyes, once sharp and full of life, now seemed distant, unfocused. His jaw tightened, but it didn¡¯t help. He still couldn¡¯t shake the feeling of the fire. It never left. As he drove, the headlights cut through the darkness, passing by the old chemical plant. It loomed in the shadows, an ominous figure rising from the night. Rumors about the chemicals left behind after years of abandonment still circulated, but no one ever bothered to do anything about it. The place had become just another piece of the town¡¯s forgotten history. Now, as Cole passed it, he couldn¡¯t shake the feeling of it watching him, like it was waiting for something¡ªwaiting for him. He drove past it without slowing, the weight of the plant¡¯s presence pressing against his chest, and continued toward home. After parking in the garage, he went inside and headed to his office. The room was cluttered with papers, the latest stack detailing the recent fires. He sifted through them, each report adding weight to the gnawing feeling in his gut. The pattern had changed. What started as small fires¡ªtrash cans, dumpsters¡ªhad escalated into abandoned houses. And now, a larger, more dangerous escalation was waiting to happen. Cole poured over the pages, his eyes scanning the details again, trying to find anything that could make sense of the chaos. Nearby, a map of the fires¡¯ locations lay open, but it wasn¡¯t helping. No discernible pattern. No neighborhoods targeted, no repeating locations. Just a scatter of dots across three counties, a chaotic web with no apparent connection. He added today¡¯s fire to the map¡ªa new dot, randomly placed, just like the others¡ªa dead end. Frustration gnawed at him as he leaned back in his chair and stared at the map. He knew the fires were connected, but the question was... how? He continued to study the papers, turning them over in his mind, desperate to find any trace of a pattern. Ten minutes passed with no progress, and eventually, he gave up. His head was spinning. He shut the folder and pushed it aside, then stood, drained and defeated. He collapsed into bed, but sleep wouldn¡¯t come easily. His mind was still trapped in the fires. He was running through flames, but it felt like he was moving in slow motion. He couldn''t run fast enough, no matter how hard he pushed himself. Up ahead, he could hear her screams. The sound twisted his insides, the raw terror in her voice driving him forward. But nothing he did could speed him up. The fire surrounded him, thick and suffocating, its heat licking at his skin. He forced himself to move faster, to push through it. Then he saw it up ahead. The door. Room 527. He could hear her screams through it¡ªMaya. ¡°Maya!¡± he tried to yell, but his voice was swallowed by the roar of the fire, drowned by the fury of the flames. Her screams grew louder, more desperate. He forced himself forward, ignoring the searing heat, the crackling of the fire consuming everything around him. The ceiling groaned, and the floor trembled beneath him. He couldn¡¯t stop now. Just as he was about to reach the door, he stopped. Why did he stop? He needed to keep moving. Why wasn¡¯t he moving? He looked up. And that¡¯s when it happened. The ceiling collapsed, sending flames crashing down and blocking the doorway completely. The floor beneath him groaned ominously, threatening to give way. The fire towered between him and the door. There was no way over, no way around. Cole stood frozen, his heart pounding. He needed to find a way through. He could still hear her screams, desperate and full of terror. His breath quickened. The sirens outside wailed, growing louder. The building was going to come down. Suddenly, the screams stopped. Only the roar of the fire remained. A chill ran down Cole¡¯s spine. He turned, panic setting in, and ran toward the stairs. The floor creaked beneath him, groaning in protest. The structure was giving way. The sirens screamed again, calling all firefighters out. They were too late. A deafening crack rang out, and the floor beneath him disappeared. He fell¡ªfalling, falling¡ªinto the flames below. The shrill blare of the alarm cut through the nightmare, yanking Cole from the depths of his dream. Cole shot up, his heart racing. He looked around the room, disoriented, trying to gather his bearings. His hand instinctively reached up to rub his eyes, but his fingers trembled as they touched his forehead. It was just a dream¡ªjust a nightmare¡ªbut it felt so real. After a few deep breaths, he calmed himself down, pushed the nightmare back into the recesses of his mind, and got dressed. He moved mechanically, like he had countless times before. In the kitchen, he poured a bowl of cereal, but it wasn¡¯t the food he needed¡ªit was the silence. His house was still, empty. No pets, no children, no wife¡ªjust the quiet, cold walls that had come to feel more like a prison than a home. But these days, the emptiness didn¡¯t bother him as much. He¡¯d grown used to it. He finished his cereal, grabbed his keys, and left. The drive to the station felt like every other morning, but as he passed the old chemical factory, something caught his eye¡ªa car swerved across the lane, cutting him off. The driver slammed into the parking lot recklessly and fast. Without thinking, Cole slammed on the horn and rolled down his window. "Learn how to drive!" he shouted, his voice thick with irritation, though he didn¡¯t care if they heard. He rolled the window back up, shaking his head, and continued to the station, unaware that the person who had cut him off was the one he was chasing. Chapter 2: Mason Stone 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¡ªhe had cleared them the last time he entered this place. Inside, he took a slow look around. This was his domain¡ªquiet, alone, and empty¡ªsave 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¡ªthose cold, calculating eyes¡ªtold 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¡ªhe 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¡ªthree, 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¡ªinside 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¡ªmore 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. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. 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¡ªthe 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¡ªthe 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¡ªit 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¡ªnot 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¡ªit 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¡ªit 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¡ªhe 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¡ªthe one place where everything would come together. The fire, the chemicals, the machines¡ªit 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¡ªit 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¡ªthe 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. Chapter Three. Cole Grayson Cole sat in his office at the station, glancing at the clock once more. 9:48. Twelve minutes left. He stood up with a sigh, stretching his back as his eyes fell on the piles of paperwork stacked neatly on his desk. He couldn¡¯t wait for his shift to end. He shoved his hands into his pockets and left his office, heading for the garage. He needed something to do while he waited out the last few minutes of his shift. The fire alarm blared to life as he passed between Engines 4 and 5, slicing through the station''s silence like a blade. His pulse spiked instantly, and instinctively, he rushed toward the lockers¡ªthen froze. He didn¡¯t have a uniform in there anymore. He¡¯d left that behind months ago. Mason came running out of his office, his face grim. ¡°Huge fire and explosion at 416 Witman,¡± he said. ¡°Witnesses say someone set it and drove off.¡± Cole exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping for a moment. ¡°Great. Just before our shift ends.¡± He quickly shook off the fatigue. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s go. Maybe we can finally get some info on our arsonist.¡± They bolted out of the station and jumped into the station¡¯s new F-350. The truck¡¯s bright red paint gleamed under the floodlights as they sped out of the lot with sirens blaring, Engine 4 ahead of them. "Not his usual area," Mason remarked, glancing at the route. "No," Cole muttered, his eyes scanning the street signs as they passed. "The fire¡¯s on the south side of town. All his other fires have been north." Mason¡¯s brow furrowed. "Maybe it¡¯s not the same guy," he suggested, hopeful. "I mean, that wouldn¡¯t be good, but¡ª" Cole shook his head, cutting him off. "Or maybe he¡¯s expanding. Or worse, he¡¯s sending a message." Mason shot him a confused look. "A message? What do you mean?" Cole''s jaw clenched as he weaved the truck around cars that hadn¡¯t pulled over. "Think about it. This fire? It¡¯s in a completely different part of town. The other side. It¡¯s like he wants us to know he¡¯s here." Mason frowned. "But why would he give away his location? Doesn¡¯t make sense." Cole didn¡¯t answer right away, his thoughts churning. The knot of dread tightening in his chest wouldn¡¯t go away. He kept his focus on the road ahead. "I don¡¯t know," he finally muttered. "But I¡¯m going to find him. And we¡¯re going to figure it out." Cole saw the bright orange flames licking at the sky as they neared the fire. The entire block seemed ready to ignite, a growing inferno that threatened to consume everything in its path. By the time they arrived, the two-story Victorian house at the center of the fire had already been reduced to a towering column of flame and smoke. The explosion from earlier had ravaged the building beyond recognition. The surrounding houses were caught in the blaze, their windows shattering and walls collapsing under the searing heat. Cole parked the F-350 twenty feet behind Engine 4. The fire crew had already disembarked, spraying water at the fire and nearby houses, but it was clear the battle was far from over. Flames continued to devour anything in their path. Mason motioned to a crowd of people standing nearby. ¡°Want to ask them questions? See if anyone saw anything?¡± ¡°Yeah, maybe we can finally get a visual of our guy,¡± Cole said, his eyes still fixed on the fire. "We¡¯ll be lucky if we can save this block. All it¡¯d take is a stray spark." A sharp, familiar sting jabbed into his chest as he watched the flames grow higher. The night of the fire eight months ago¡ªwhen he had failed to save that little girl¡ªrose up like an uninvited ghost. The smoke, the flames, the screams... the helplessness. His breath quickened. No. He had to focus. He forced the memories back down, like a dam holding back floodwaters, and focused on the task at hand. Not again. Don¡¯t do this to yourself. "Yeah, but they¡¯ve got it handled. Hopefully." Evan¡¯s voice broke through his thoughts. He wasn¡¯t looking at Cole, or maybe he was pretending not to notice. They walked toward the crowd of people, and Cole finally dragged his eyes away from the inferno. Engine 2 had just arrived and was helping Engine 4. ¡°Did anyone see who set the fire?¡± Cole asked the group. A few people spoke up, and he ushered them over to a quieter spot. Seven witnesses followed, and Cole divided them up, sending three to Evan. ¡°Did anyone see what the person looked like?¡± he asked, hoping someone might have caught a glimpse. ¡°I did,¡± a woman spoke up, stepping forward. Her black hair fell in loose waves around her face. She looked to be in her late 30s. ¡°He was younger. Maybe no older than twenty-five.¡± Cole scribbled the details in his notepad as she spoke. ¡°Anything else?¡± ¡°Yeah, he had blond hair, though it looked unkempt. That¡¯s really all I saw.¡± ¡°That¡¯s fine,¡± Cole said, writing down her description. ¡°How did he get here? Did he walk, drive...?¡± ¡°He drove a little black sedan. I¡¯m not good with cars. I¡¯m sorry,¡± she apologized. ¡°It¡¯s okay. Every little bit helps.¡± Cole glanced back at the group. Another man stepped forward, his face worn with age, his voice rough. ¡°I saw the car, too. It was a Chevy Impala. Late 2000s, I believe. Definitely after ¡¯05. It was black as night, but I recognized those headlights.¡± Cole nodded, writing everything down. ¡°Thank you, sir. Anything else?¡± The woman who had spoken earlier stepped forward again. ¡°He was smiling when it went up,¡± she said, her voice shaking. ¡°A sinister smile while watching the flames.¡± ¡°Smiling? Like it brought him joy?¡± Cole asked, his concern creeping into his voice. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. ¡°Yes, exactly like that. Joyfully sinister.¡± Cole¡¯s stomach turned. He scribbled the words down, his pen shaking slightly as he wrote. He was familiar with that kind of smile¡ªthe kind that sent shivers down your spine. His mind reeled for a moment, the image of that smile lingering in his thoughts. He glanced at Evan, who had joined them now. ¡°Thanks, ma¡¯am,¡± Cole said, his voice tight. ¡°Officers should be here soon. They¡¯ll want to speak with you.¡± He turned and walked back to Evan. As they made their way back to the truck, Cole jotted one final word in his notepad. It felt like a warning, like something he didn¡¯t want to face but knew he had to. Pyromaniac? Evan walked over to him, stretching his arms. ¡°Not much, but it¡¯s a start. Black car, young adult, doesn¡¯t narrow it down much.¡± ¡°How many black Impalas do you think there are in Ashford? Between ''06 and 2010?¡± Cole asked, thinking out loud. Evan scratched his head. ¡°Black Impalas that belong to a young adult? Not many.¡± Cole¡¯s mind flashed to the car that had cut him off earlier that morning at the old factory. It had been a black Impala. Between 2005 and 2010. The same make, the same color. But the thought barely had time to settle before another pushed it aside¡ªone far darker. ¡°We might have a bigger problem here,¡± Cole said, his voice heavy with concern. ¡°I think our arsonist is a pyromaniac.¡± Evan froze for a moment, processing. ¡°A pyromaniac? What makes you think that?¡± ¡°A lady over there said she saw him smiling at the flames,¡± Cole explained. ¡°She described it as a ¡®joyfully sinister¡¯ smile.¡± Evan¡¯s gaze turned toward the flames, which were finally starting to dwindle, their crackling subsiding. Engine 1 had arrived to assist, and the police had begun cordoning off the area. ¡°God help us all if this is just the beginning,¡± Evan said quietly. Cole didn¡¯t answer, his thoughts already racing ahead. The idea of facing a pyromaniac¡ªsomeone who didn¡¯t just set fires to destroy property but to derive pleasure from the destruction¡ªmade his stomach churn. The night was far from over, and they still had so much to figure out. The fire was almost under control now. They stayed a little longer, helping out where they could, but they headed back to the station when it became clear that the situation was stable. ¡°First thing tomorrow, we¡¯ll go out and investigate,¡± Cole said, still lost in thought. Evan yawned as he leaned back in his seat. ¡°Think we¡¯re gonna find anything?¡± ¡°I doubt it,¡± Cole said, his eyes narrowing. ¡°The fire was too intense. It¡¯s most likely burned away any clues. But we can¡¯t leave anything to chance.¡± ¡°Why don¡¯t we just get Billy and Willy to handle it? It¡¯s one in the morning,¡± Evan muttered. Cole smirked. ¡°Because Billy and Will,¡± he emphasized the names, ¡°have their own district to cover. We¡¯ll take care of this one.¡± ¡°I know. It¡¯s just gonna suck after a late night like this.¡± Cole didn¡¯t respond, his thoughts already lingering on the growing dread in his chest. They drove the rest of the way in silence, the hum of the engine only underscoring the tension that weighed heavily on him. As they drove, Cole noticed that the silence between them felt heavier than usual. As the drive back stretched on, Cole couldn''t help but let his mind wander back to the fire. How the flames had ravaged the block. And he couldn¡¯t stop himself from imagining the smile on the pyromaniac''s face. ¡°Maybe we¡¯ll get lucky and a camera caught him driving away,¡± Evan said, his voice breaking the quiet. Cole nodded absently, his mind still on the fire and the crowd. The woman who had described the smile as ¡®joyfully sinister.¡¯ He could picture it now: those eyes full of joy, reflecting the fire in them, watching the destruction unfold, the house consumed. He felt a tightness in his chest and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a chill running down his spine from the image. It¡¯s just a fire. Just another arson case, he thought to himself. But what if it¡¯s something worse? He couldn¡¯t shake it. Something about this fire, about the smile, felt¡­ different. As they continued their drive back to the station, Cole couldn''t seem to shake the feeling of unease gnawing at him. The image of the fire, the destructive power, the people watching, and especially that woman¡¯s description of the man¡¯s smile¡­ it kept replaying in his mind, like a broken record. The man had enjoyed it. That sinister joy he found in watching the flames consume everything, in seeing the chaos unfold¡ªit wasn¡¯t something Cole could easily forget. Evan¡¯s voice broke through the haze of his thoughts. ¡°We¡¯ll find something tomorrow. It¡¯s gonna be a long day, but at least we¡¯ve got some leads. We¡¯ll track down that Impala, check out some cameras, see if we can find more witnesses.¡± Cole nodded absently. He hoped Evan was right. But something told him they wouldn¡¯t find what they were looking for. Or maybe they would, but it would be worse than they imagined. What kind of person finds joy in destruction? The silence that followed seemed even more oppressive than before. Cole stole a glance at Evan. His partner had his hands resting on his lap, eyes half-closed, probably too tired to even think. But Cole couldn¡¯t stop thinking. His mind was racing, building theories, piecing together things that didn¡¯t quite add up. As they neared the station, the familiar glow of the building¡¯s lights was a small comfort. The end of their shift was finally in sight. They pulled into the parking lot, the truck¡¯s tires making a soft squeal as it slid into place. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of smoke from the fire still lingering in Cole¡¯s nostrils. They got out of the truck and made their way toward the door. ¡°You going straight to bed?¡± Evan asked, pulling his jacket tighter against the chill. ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll be able to sleep,¡± Cole muttered. ¡°I¡¯ve got a lot on my mind.¡± Evan gave him a sidelong glance. ¡°Yeah, me too. It¡¯s gonna be a long night for both of us.¡± Cole paused before pushing open the door, looking back at the truck. The night had already taken its toll, and even though the fire was under control, the unanswered questions lingered like the smoke. Inside, the station was quieter than usual. Only a few of the other crew members were milling about, finishing up their reports or grabbing a late-night snack from the break room. It was a stark contrast to the chaos they''d just left behind. Cole¡¯s mind was still on the fire, the explosion, the unsettling feeling of being watched as the inferno grew. ¡°Hey, Cole!¡± one of the other firefighters called out, a cheerful smile on his face. It was short-lived when he saw the look on Cole¡¯s face. ¡°What¡¯s up? You look like you just saw a ghost.¡± ¡°Yeah, maybe,¡± Cole muttered, absently rubbing at his temples. The headache from the stress was starting to take root, but the thought of sleep still eluded him. ¡°I¡¯ll see you tomorrow,¡± Evan said, slapping Cole on the back. ¡°Get some rest, alright? We¡¯ve got a lot of work ahead.¡± Cole watched as Evan disappeared into the hallway. He wanted to get some rest, too, but his mind wouldn¡¯t let him. He walked over to his desk, sitting down heavily in the chair, and pulled out the notebook from earlier. The word Pyromaniac? stared back at him, unsettling and accusatory. Was he jumping to conclusions? Maybe he was, but something about the way the witnesses described the fire, the way the man had smiled at the flames, didn¡¯t sit right. He ran his fingers over the page, then pushed the notebook aside with a sigh. The office was still, the faint hum of the overhead lights the only sound in the room. He let his gaze drift out the window, looking at the empty streets outside. What was the pyromaniac trying to say? Was he sending a message, like Cole had thought? And if so, what kind of message was it? Cole leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, fighting the urge to sleep. His mind was still spinning, but it was the same thought that kept popping up, no matter how hard he tried to push it away. What if this is just the beginning? It didn¡¯t help that every time he closed his eyes, he could still see the flames. They burned so brightly, and for a second, in the midst of all that destruction, Cole thought he saw a face¡ªa figure in the shadows, hidden by the smoke. But it wasn¡¯t the firemen. It wasn¡¯t the people trying to save the houses. No, this figure had been watching the fire. Watching it burn with that sick smile. Cole shook his head, forcing the image out. He needed sleep. They had a full day ahead of them tomorrow, and the last thing he needed was to stay up worrying about the man behind the flames. With a deep breath, Cole finally let his head rest on the desk. He closed his eyes, but the uneasy feeling remained. He didn¡¯t know who the arsonist was, but he was sure of one thing. He wouldn¡¯t stop until he found him.