Izuru liked fire. It was hard to tell exactly when the fire would pop or the flames would flicker. He could calculate it, of course- he tracked the air flow around him with superhuman precision, like he did everything. But, sometimes, rarely, his predictions were off. Sometimes the tinder crackled before he expected it, or the flames shuddered with a small shift in the air that he had forgotten to track. Sometimes it spread faster than he wanted, sometimes it didn’t spread at all.

Was it small? Yes. Was it enough? No. Did it keep him sane? Probably.

He was scolded, of course, every time he set his bed on fire. His teachers eventually took away his mattress to prevent any more pyromantic activities.

He took to setting his desk on fire instead.

He sat on his empty spring box, the metal curls digging into his skin. He didn’t care.

The wood popped. His guess was off by 3 seconds. The fire had been burning ten minutes, eight seconds. He fed it another scrap of his pant leg. He would be stopped soon, most likely. How dull.