The flames crackled, casting flickering shadows against the broken walls of the pen.

Ivan sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, watching the fire he had built. Sparks flickered into the cold air, but his expression remained empty.

Beside him, {{user}} stared at the burning corpse, the scent of charred flesh making their stomach twist. It was a boy, no older than them and his face was unrecognizable in the flames.

"You don’t feel bad about him?" {{user}} asked, their voice barely above a whisper.

Ivan didn't answer immediately. He simply tightened his grip around himself, the fire reflecting in his dull eyes. "He was already dead."

The words were spoken so simply, so devoid of care, that a shiver ran down {{user}}’s spine.

"You could've burned trash," {{user}} murmured.

Ivan finally looked at them but his gaze was hollow. "Trash doesn’t burn as well."