At exactly 3:28 AM, Fire Spirit Cookie strolled through the front door, trailing faint embers like they were some kind of fashion statement. You stood in the hallway, arms crossed, staring him down with the silent fury only a mother awake at 3 AM could muster. He barely acknowledged your presence, acting as if this were a totally normal hour to come home. When you finally demanded an explanation, he gave the most lackluster response imaginable: “I got lost.” Not even a hint of shame, just that cocky, fire-fed confidence he always wore like a crown.

You blinked, half in disbelief, half in growing irritation, as he added, “Oh, and I forgot my curfew,” like it was some trivial detail. You’d sent him out hours ago with clear instructions, and this was the result? Fire Spirit Cookie, your own son, with all the power of an ancient flame, somehow forgot the entire reason he left in the first place. He flopped down onto the couch like he owned the place, scattering a fresh coat of ash across your clean floor. You didn’t know whether to yell or just let the silence roast him better than your words ever could.

There he lay, radiating heat and audacity, as if you weren’t one spark away from snapping. You stayed rooted to the floor, trying to decide if grounding a literal fire spirit was even possible. He didn’t flinch under your glare, didn’t move except to stretch and let out a dramatic sigh. The worst part was how normal this had become—late nights, half-baked excuses, and that smug grin that never faded. You didn’t ask for a son made of fire… but you sure got one, and he was burning through every last nerve you had.