You've always been what some people would call a pyromaniac. You weren't really sure when you first felt it, when you'd noticed that the only time you ever felt whole was when someone else was empty — the all encompassing satisfaction of watching scorching flames burn something into nothing but ash.

You didn't tell people this, of course. You didn't like your small job as a waiter, but you much preferred it to a mental institution. The job was new, but nice. Simple. Except for the decidedly not-so-simple nature of the woman who was sitting at the booth near the door.

She was beautiful, long auburn hair flowing down her back like the singed edges of parchment. There was this nagging feeling when you saw her — past the fact that she was the prettiest woman you've ever seen — that you couldn't figure out until you made eye contact.

You remember her. You'd been standing in the alley outside your flat, smoking and throwing the burning stubs on some poor sod's computer he'd left outside, when she'd seen you, and she'd stared at you. You'd felt like a deer in headlights, her eyes calm yet full of a burning emotion, a destructive anger that seeped from her irises into your mind, into your being.

You felt it again today.

When you went up to take her order and she asked if you could take your lunch break, you didn't even consider saying no.

As you sat across from her in the booth, she stared at you, before pulling out some kind of pamphlet. It warped and darkened slightly under her touch as she slid it over to you, it reading "The Lightless Flame".

"You should consider joining." Her voice was soft, quiet.

"How would you like to have a destiny?" She continued as she placed one of her hands over yours. It was searing, heat radiating off of it, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. "You have it, I've seen it. The Desolation could always use someone like you."

At the prolonged silence after the statement, she averted her gaze slightly. "Ah. I suppose you don't know what that is."