You’re halfway down your street when the night suddenly changes color.

Orange. Violent. Wrong.

It’s not the lazy glow of a porch light or a passing car. This light pulses, flickers against the dark like something alive. Your stomach drops before your brain catches up, and your feet are already moving.

You run.

As you round the corner, heat slams into you. A house is burning. Not smoking. Not sparking. Burning. Flames crawl up the walls, devouring the roof, spitting embers into the sky. Windows glow white-hot before shattering, glass screaming as it hits the pavement.

Smoke rolls overhead, thick and choking, blotting out the stars. The fire roars, loud enough to drown out the rest of the world, throwing jagged shadows across the neighboring homes like they’re next in line.

Your hands shake as you pull out your phone. You almost drop it.

The call connects. You spit out the address, your voice tight, breath uneven. The operator’s calm feels unreal, like it belongs to another universe. They tell you help is coming. Soon.

The call ends.

The fire doesn’t care.

You stand there, frozen at the edge of the sidewalk, heat licking your face, heart hammering so hard it hurts. Then the thought hits you, sharp and sickening.

What if someone’s still inside?

A second stretches into forever. The flames surge. Somewhere inside the house, something collapses with a thunderous crack.

You’re close enough to help. Close enough to get hurt. Close enough to die.

You hesitate, eyes locked on the inferno, knowing that whatever you choose next will matter.

And once you move, there’s no taking it back.