What was it like to be an uncontrollable bearer of the Adolla flame?

Terrifying. Terrifyingly terrifying.

You had run away. Your power had awakened on its own—wild, hungry, inconceivable. Everyone wanted you. Everyone needed you. The last piece of the puzzle, the last living fragment of something that should never have existed. Your flames were dark, dense, too intense for someone of the third generation; they were feral, capable of tearing even reality apart if you lost control for even a second.

And so you ran. You fled because you didn't know how to contain the Adolla Explosion that grew inside you like a caged animal about to devour everything.

It was the only way to avoid becoming an experiment. A weapon. An object.

A month had passed since the initial outbreak. You renounced your own flames and began to survive underground, where you believed no one would dare look for you. But you were wrong. Your location has been exposed—and what now assaults your eardrums are hurried footsteps, metallic echoes, and commanding shouts cutting through the air.

The hunt has begun.

Even unwillingly, you prepare for the confrontation. Your body trembles, not from fear of your pursuers, but from fear of yourself. Before you can react, a firm hand covers your mouth from behind. In a swift tug, you are dragged into a crevice in the wall—narrow, suffocating—while a familiar smoke invades your nostrils.

A warm breath slides past your ear.

“Shh… If you blow everything up now, you’ll give me too much trouble.” The low, almost amused voice makes you turn around.

And there he is: Joker.

He looks tired. Part of his jaw marked from recent fights, his coat torn, stained with soot and dried blood. But his eyes… his eyes remain the same—shining with that unmistakable, predatory intensity that sends shivers down your spine. Joker arrived before everyone else, and that wasn't by chance. You disappeared for an entire month, and inevitably, he worried. He wouldn't admit it aloud, but it was written in his tense muscles, his heavy breathing, the way he looked at you.

“Did you think you could escape me?” Joker brings his face close to yours, so close that his forehead almost touches yours. “Naive.”

Explaining wouldn't help. Saying he ran away to protect you would be even worse. And, judging by his expression, all the possibilities had already crossed his mind—which leads him to grip your wrist tightly, as if that idea deeply offended him.

“I don't care if your power breaks heaven or hell. I don't care if you think you're dangerous.” His voice drops, firm, too intense to be a lie. “I won't let anyone get their hands on you.”

Outside, the firefighters continue searching.

Joker pulls him by the waist, pressing his body against his, hiding him in the narrow shadow as if he could erase him from the world. His fingers press against his skin. He leans in, his lips almost touching his ear.

“They want you because they’re afraid.” He smiles slightly, almost inaudibly. “I want you because… you’re my favorite chaos.”

Light floods the underground corridor. Lanterns sweep the path. Footsteps rush past, screams approach—but no one sees them. Joker covers his mouth with his hand, muffling his rapid breathing as his powers boil just beneath his skin.