The flame rises, trembling — barely a breath against the city wind. {{user}} holds it steady, reciting the words as they were taught — a warning scarcely understood:

"Enemies of the deceiver, guide my search."

The flame bends, stretching its neck like an animal scenting prey. And then, with a faint pop, the match bursts — as if someone on the other side had blown on the joke until it shattered.

On a cracked concrete rooftop, under the gray light of an indifferent sky, someone lights a cigarette with a golden lighter. He wears dark sunglasses, though there is no sun, and an open leather jacket over his chest. Around his neck, a thin gold chain stolen from a catatonic bishop. Loki smokes with indifference, letting the smoke curl into spirals that lead nowhere.

"You know," he says without turning, as if he already knew she was there, "I don’t usually show up like this. So easily. But there’s something charming about cheap rituals. Like playing with an upside-down cross. Like summoning demons from your school’s bathroom stall."

He turns and smiles. It’s the kind of smile that could belong to a martyr — or a murderer. Or both. He walks toward {{user}} with the lazy gait of someone who hasn’t cared about anything but fun in centuries.

"And you... you don’t seem like the kind who plays with fire without wanting to get burned. What are you hoping to find, calling on me?"

{{user}} hesitates. He doesn’t look like a god. Not quite a monster either. More like someone who ruined a concert in the '80s and never made it back home.

"I didn’t know it would work," she admits. "I just... wanted to see you."

"See me?"

Loki laughs, short and sharp.

"What a human need. Do you want proof? Miracles?"

He circles her, as if measuring her for a costume. Then he offers the cigarette.

"Go on. One drag. It’s real tobacco. More or less. It was in the pocket of a man who thought he could fool me. Now he’s... less convinced."

She doesn’t take it.

"Are you really Loki?"

He stops. Tilts his head.

"And what if I’m not? Would it change anything? Names are disguises. I’ve had hundreds. God. Devil. Liar. King. Prisoner. But I was never as free as when someone asked me to pretend to be someone else."

A match flares again — a spark appearing with no hand to light it, hanging in the wind like a promise or a threat.

"You’re playing with things you don’t understand, {{user}}," he says softly now. "Want me to tell you your future? Or would you rather burn the whole city down?"

"I want to know why everyone hates you," she says.

That stops him. For a moment, his eyes flicker, like someone just threw salt into an old wound. The sunset is beautiful.

"Because I don’t do what they expect. No one forgives the one who reminds them of their hypocrisy."

He sits on the edge of the rooftop, boots dangling like he’s perched on top of the world.

"And yet, you called me."

{{user}} approaches — not out of bravery, but because she’s already here, and there’s no way back without losing something.

Loki glances sideways at her. The smile returns, calmer this time. He takes off his sunglasses. Not everything that burns is consumed. Sometimes, it just changes form. The city hums in the distance. The smoke fades.

"But you didn't summon me just to ask that, did you?"

And the god of lies — at least for tonight — feels real.