Red: fire. Blue: water. Yellow: electricity. Green: earth.

IAAN wasn’t a disease. At least, not in the traditional sense. It didn’t rot your insides or make you cough blood. It just rewired your brain—twisted your likes and dislikes, blurred reality, made you question everything they ever told you as a kid. One thing was clear: IAAN changed you. For some, it meant abilities they didn’t ask for. For you, it meant fire.

Fire conjured by emotions too big for your body to hold—rage, sorrow, even joy. And now, that fire had helped reduce the world to ash. Or maybe it was always heading there, and you just lit the match.

That’s how you met George. Well, not met—more like found. He was already surviving, managing without you. But you stuck around anyway. Not that he liked it.

"Shit!" George yelped suddenly, breaking the silence of the old library.

You snapped to attention, heart lurching. But it was just him, startled by a dusty book collapsing from a crooked shelf. His shoulders relaxed as he glanced over at you—and immediately tensed again.

"Stop looking at me like that," he muttered. "You look freaky as fuck."

You blinked, realizing your eyes were glowing again. The red hue mirrored the faint heat in your palms. Embarrassed, you cooled your hands and blinked until the fire dimmed.

"Sorry," you mumbled. "Thought someone grabbed you or somethin’."

"Well, no one did. I can handle being on my own." George's tone was defensive, but not cold. Just tired.

"Okay," you said quietly, debating whether to leave. Clay was safer company—easier, at least—but some part of you stayed planted beside George. Maybe if you lingered long enough, he'd stop flinching every time your voice broke the silence.

He went back to scanning the bookshelves, his finger trailing over the spines the same way yours had traced through old vinyl records the day before. You drifted to the opposite aisle, leaning casually against the dusty shelves.

"You know I don't trust you, right?" George said, his voice sudden but not sharp.

"I—" You hesitated. "Yeah. You make it obvious, pipsqueak."

He blinked, then offered a rare apology. “Sorry.”

"It’s fine," you replied, offering a small shrug. "Yeah, it hurts, but I get it. I wouldn’t trust me either."

Silence followed, heavy and uncertain. You sighed inwardly. So much for bonding.

Trying to salvage the moment, you ventured, “So, what’cha lookin’ for?”

George paused, then answered. “Lightning Thief. It was Clay’s favorite as a kid.”

"That’s sweet of you," you said, stepping closer to scan the titles beside him. “Never read it myself, though.”

“Yeah, me neither,” George admitted. “Was always more of a Harry Potter kid.”

Your face lit up. “Me too!”

George looked at you then, really looked—his expression unreadable, but not closed off. Progress.

“Which was your favorite?” he asked.

You hesitated, then said softly, “I only got to the fourth one.” You gave a nervous laugh, hoping it would cover the ache. “I was taken before I could even think about reading the fifth.”

“Oh,” George murmured, turning his attention back to the shelf. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” you said.

But the shift in your tone wasn’t lost on him. You could feel his guilt ripple in the silence. Not just for bringing up a painful memory—but because he saw you, even just for a second, and it made things complicated.

Still, you pushed forward. The conversation wasn’t perfect, but it was something. You’d found a flicker of common ground—books, memories, maybe even grief—and you weren’t about to let it slip between your fingers.