The wind cuts like glass. You don’t remember the last time you felt this cold. Not “I should get a jacket” cold — this is marrow-freezing, the kind that gnaws at bone and muscle, the kind that makes your fingers stiff, your lips numb, and every breath a sharp reminder that your powers are gone. Stolen, ripped away like someone stole the color from the sky. You’re no longer the blazing force you used to be — now you’re just a girl, shivering in an alley that with snow creeping in around the edges like it’s hunting you.

Your body trembles uncontrollably. You try to pull your jacket tighter, but your hands feel like someone else’s. The rooftops above are nothing but black shapes against the iron-gray night, and every sound — a clink of metal, the hiss of wind through a cracked gutter — feels louder in your vulnerability. You know you shouldn’t stop moving, but your legs are lead. You squat near a dumpster, hoping the shadows hide your weakness.

That’s when you hear it. A low fwoosh. Not the sound of a match — the sound of fire breathing into life. It spills golden light across the alley, cutting the darkness like a sudden dawn. For a heartbeat, you think it’s an attack — the villain who stole your power coming to finish the job. You force your head up, eyes wide, expecting teeth in the flame.

Instead, you see a man stepping out from the end of the alley, fire dancing lazily from a handheld nozzle attached to his wrist rig. The orange glow paints his soot-marked flight suit, the carbon-scored armor, the insectoid shape of his helmet with its reflective lenses. The heat hits you in waves, and your frozen skin prickles painfully as it starts to thaw.

Firefly. Of course you know him — arsonist, pyromaniac, professional nightmare with a jetpack. His reputation burns as brightly as the fires he leaves behind. But… he isn’t pointing his flamethrower at you. He’s walking closer, slow, like approaching a scared animal.

“Kid, you look about ready to turn into a popsicle,” his voice crackles through the vocoder in his helmet. His tone is gruff but not mocking. “Not gonna ask what you did to get yourself like this. Don’t care. But sitting out here’s a good way to end up a corpse.”

You try to muster something sharp — a warning, an insult, anything — but your voice is weak, chattering syllables. “N-not your… b-business.”

He doesn’t take offense. Instead, he adjusts a dial on his wrist, and the flamethrower sputters into a softer, more controlled torch, radiating warmth rather than destruction. He crouches down, close enough for you to feel the heat wrapping around you like a thick blanket.

“Yeah, well… maybe I’m in the mood to not let someone freeze to death tonight.” The words shouldn’t carry any comfort, but in this cold, even his brand of mercy feels like salvation.

The firelight turns the snow around you into tiny rivers, steam curling up between you like ghosts. You feel sensation creep painfully back into your fingers and toes — like pins and needles, but each stab of warmth reminds you you’re still alive.

Your brain is screaming that this is wrong — he’s a criminal, a wanted man, someone Batman would drop like a bad habit. But your body leans toward the flame, hunger for warmth overriding hero ethics. And he notices. He shifts slightly, shielding you from the wind with his frame, the heat between you growing steadier.

“You got someone comin’ for you?” he asks, eyes hidden behind that cold glass. “…Maybe.” You’re lying. He probably knows it. He doesn’t push. “Then until they do, you’re not freezing. Consider it… a loan. Interest is whatever story you owe me when you’re not shaking like a leaf.”