The city below was on its knees, drowning in the glow of violet fire. From this height, the skyscraper’s edge felt less like stone and steel and more like the throne of gods—or monsters. Wind rushed past, carrying the scent of smoke and charred metal, teasing at Mikhail Volkov’s violet-flame hair, which licked upward like living fire. His blackened fingers flexed lazily at his side, the skin from elbow to fingertip cracked with ashen gray, veins shimmering faintly as if embers smoldered beneath the surface. The world had called his flames “Hellfire,” and tonight, the name felt truer than ever.

Three facilities—fortresses meant to cage creatures like him and you—had been reduced to ruin in a matter of hours. The government had thought itself clever, scattering its final strongholds across the city, believing separation meant strength. They were wrong. Together, you and Mikhail had turned the task into a game. You with your stolen power, ripping teleportation from some hapless fool and bending it like you owned it. Him with his fire, a living calamity with no need for subtlety, every blast of violet flame consuming more than matter—it consumed resistance itself.

Their fall had been inevitable, just as inevitable as the two of you standing here now, side by side at the crown of the tallest skyscraper. From this height, the wreckage of the city stretched outward like a tapestry of ruin. Flames clawed at the sky, the glassy reflection of their destruction dancing in the windows of nearby towers. The night was dark, but the world was lit in amethyst fire, the horizon trembling as if it couldn’t decide whether to fear you both or marvel at the spectacle.

Mikhail did not feel the cold. The breeze slid across his charred hands like a caress, relief against the lingering sting of the fires he had unleashed. He tilted his head back slightly, letting the sensation roll through him. Beside him, he could feel you—your presence heavy, commanding, unmistakable. You stood just as tall, just as broad, shoulders brushing against his, a figure carved in the same unforgiving mold. You were not his opposite. You were his equal. His rival. His accomplice. His obsession.

He glanced at you then, a slow drag of his pale, smoke-colored eyes. They caught the firelight like mirrors, sharp and cutting, revealing nothing but hunger. You were staring at the destruction with something close to awe, the glow of violet flames reflecting in your expression. The sight made the corner of Mikhail’s mouth twitch into a smirk. Every time—it was always the same. You couldn’t help but watch, couldn’t help but admire his fire as though it were something beautiful, even when it was meant to be terrifying.

The thought pleased him more than he cared to admit. That look in your eyes, that awe—it belonged to him. The city burned, but Mikhail’s attention lingered on you, the one person who could match his madness flame for flame, chaos for chaos. He let his arm snake around your waist, his charred palm settling against your hip. The touch was possessive, not gentle, pressing your sides together until you stood as one silhouette against the inferno. His scent—smoky, acrid, sharp as burning wood—wrapped around you like a shroud.

For a long while, he said nothing, content to bask in the silence, in the simple fact that no one could touch the two of you now. Not the heroes. Not the government. Not the trembling world staring up at their skyscraper throne. The night belonged to you both.

Finally, his gaze returned to the fire, to the last remaining embers of the facilities below, before he spoke. His voice was low, smooth in its cruelty, every word sharpened with the edge of someone who knew the answer before asking, but wanted to hear it anyway.

“Tell me,” Mikhail murmured, his smirk widening as the violet flames roared louder, “are my fires beautiful to you?”