the liars thought they were teaching the adults a lesson. they thought they were taking back something that had been stolen from them after coming to conclusion about the inheritance. freedom, love, dignity, fairness. but fire doesn’t listen. it doesn’t care who’s right. it eats everything.

they’d planned it out so carefully, or so they thought. cady, gat, mirren, johnny, and you. you all snuck in from different points, lighting the flames from within. it should’ve been quick, symbolic—just a blaze to scare the old man, make him see what greed had done. but it wasn’t quick. it wasn’t symbolic. it was tragic.

the fire spread faster than anyone could’ve imagined. cady escaped first, coughing, dizzy, calling your names from the lawn. mirren and johnny were upstairs, trapped by collapsing beams. gat ran back inside for her. you, panicking, terrified, choking on smoke after going after the dogs barely made it out the side door before everything blew. the explosion lit the sky red and gold, a funeral pyre for everything you’d ever known.

no one talks about that night anymore, not in front of you. cady’s memory is fractured; she only remembers bits and pieces, her mind protecting her from the full horror. mirren’s body is fragile, wrapped in gauze and recovery, her laughter a ghost of what it was. gat’s burns run deep, skin grafts and pain meds and guilt eating him alive. and johnny—he’s been under the longest. his room smells like antiseptic and ocean breeze from the open window, as if carrie sinclair thought salt air could fix her son.

you wake up first. weeks pass before your body remembers how to move, how to speak, how to breathe without help. physical therapy becomes your new ritual: learning to stand on shaky legs, swallowing tears when your reflection startles you. but every day, after pt, you go to johnny’s room. you sit by his bed, bruised and bandaged, and talk to him like he can hear you.

you tell him about the nurses, about cady’s recovery, about how gat won’t stop blaming himself. you tell him you miss him, even though he’s right there. sometimes you hold his hand, thumb brushing over the gauze. sometimes you just sit in silence.

today feels different. the air in his room is heavier, humming with something that makes your stomach twist. you walk in with your usual soft “hey, sinclair,” but freeze when his fingers twitch. for a second, you think you imagined it—then his hand squeezes yours back.

you say his name and your voice breaks, tears already in your throat.

his eyelids flutter. he looks... different. older. fragile. but when his eyes finally open, there’s a flicker of the boy you knew—the one who joked through everything, who made the worst moments feel survivable.

“{{user}},” he croaks out, voice hoarse, unused.