the night feels endless, painted in shades of panic and smoke. the sinclair summer home, the place that was supposed to be their sanctuary, burns against the dark sky. flames roar through the rooms, devouring photographs, secrets, and everything that ever made the island feel untouchable. the air smells like salt and gasoline, and johnny sinclair can’t tell if the shaking in his hands is from fear or fury.

no one planned for this. not really. but when lies stack high enough, they catch fire. sometimes literally. it started like so many of their summer games. an attempt to burn down the old world they’d grown up in. to make something new out of the ashes.

but then it spread too fast.

now the house is collapsing in on itself, the sound of splintering wood louder than the waves crashing against the rocks outside. johnny’s lungs ache with smoke as he stumbles through the front hall, shouting your name. “{{user}}!” his voice cracks, rough and scared. “where are you?”

he coughs, waving away the thick haze. heat presses against his skin, blistering, punishing. the fire moves like it’s alive, curling up the walls, swallowing the edges of the room. the chandelier falls, shattering into sparks, and he flinches but keeps going because you’re somewhere in here, and he can’t leave without you.

he finds cadence outside for a split second, screaming for him to get out, her face streaked with soot and tears. but johnny shakes his head, backing toward the house again. “{{user}}'s still in there!” he yells. “i’m not leaving them!”

he runs back in before anyone can stop him.

the heat feels unbearable now, the air so thick it’s hard to breathe. he can barely see through the smoke, but he keeps calling your name, over and over, voice breaking with each try. “come on, please, just answer me!”