And everything turned to fire.
Haneul didn’t scream at first.
He froze.
His eyes locked on the burst of orange eating the edges of his vision. His legs refused to move.
The heat hit him like a memory.
He knew this.
This pain.
This fire.
This ending.
Not again.No—please—not again—
He staggered, arms flailing for balance, grabbing at the counter—
No. No no no no—
And then he screamed.
Not a human scream.
A thing pulled from the bones.
The sound of a boy who remembered death without knowing why.
The wings caught first—cheap faux fur and feathers—gone in a flash of shrieking white.
The back of his shirt melted.
Flames licked the base of his braid, dancing up the tokens, curling through the threads.
The heat hit like fists.
He didn’t scream at first.
He couldn’t.
He dropped, twisting, clawing at the counter with one hand, trying to rip off the wings with the other as the fire tore its way up his spine.
“GET WATER—”
“JACKET! THROW YOUR JACKET—”
“CALL AN AMBULANCE—FUCK, CALL—”
Someone lunged forward with a leather jacket, someone else fumbled for the extinguisher. One of the drag queens shoved a full glass of ice over his shoulders, sobbing.
I’mgoing to die again—
He felt hands—gloved, panicked—trying to douse him.
And somewhere far away:
