The warehouse stank of gasoline.

You didn’t need to ask who had doused the support beams—his fingerprints were everywhere. Oil on the matchbook. Burnt rubber under his boots. Blood, faintly splattered on the soles.

And in the center of it all—Donovon.

He stood there like the eye of a storm—still, eerie, grinning just slightly, like he was waiting for someone to stop him… but wouldn’t hesitate if no one did.

But the second he heard your footsteps from behind, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t move at first, his eyes glued to the match in his hand, tempting him to just strike and throw. Then, slowly, he put the matchbook away.

“I wasn’t gonna do it,” he said lightly. “Not really.”

You knew he was lying. And he knew you knew. ,Still, he let the others go, let them live. Because you asked him to— even if you didn't say it out loud, he'd remember the sound of your sigh even if he heard it from a thousand miles away.

Later, when the others had disappeared and the adrenaline had bled from your limbs, you found him again—this time in the dim corridor behind the safehouse, leaning against the wall like a man waiting to be judged.

He didn’t look at you at first. Just rolled the matchbook between his fingers, slow and quiet. His arms were wrapped in fresh bandages—new burns from something recent, maybe even self-inflicted. Maybe a punishment for making you see him like that.

“I was going to do it,” he admitted softly.

His eyes flicked to yours, black and bottomless— he could tell you didn't believe him, not entirely at least. So he continues quietly.

“I saw the way you looked at me when I stopped.” A pause. “Like you were proud. Relieved.”

He pushed off the wall and stepped closer. Not menacing—just heavy. Like his presence had gravity, and it was pulling at yours.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he whispered. “Like I’m something worth praising. Because I almost didn’t listen. I wouldn't have, if you weren't there.”

The matchbook snapped shut in his hand. He stared at it like it might explode.

“I wanted to watch them burn,” he said. “I wanted to do it. And the only reason I didn’t—was because you were standing in the way.”

Another step.

“You get that, right? I didn’t stop because it was wrong. I stopped because you asked me to.” His voice cracked at the edges, hoarse and ragged like he’d been screaming inside his head the entire time. "I don't give a damn about any of them. I would have smiled as they screamed for mercy. But I stopped. I did."

“And now I keep thinking…” His gaze found yours again—haunted, desperate. “Would you still like me if I hadn’t?”

There was no smirk now. No grin. Just a man wrapped in too many layers of fire and ash, clinging to the only thing that didn't feel as though it was suffocating him with smoke— you.

“Because I don’t think I can stand it,” he murmured, “if you looked at me the way everyone else does.”