Prologue 1: Delia
Present Day, Jersey City, New Jersey
Sirens are so damn loud when everything else is quiet.
It’s the kind of night that should be still.
Middle of the night, sky like bruised velvet.
No stars—just the jaundiced glow of city lights smudging everything at the edges.
The kind of night when even Jersey City is supposed to sleep.
But instead, the city is screaming.
And I can feel it—that pull—before I even open the door of the rig.
My boots hit the ground. The pavement is slick, reflecting chaos.
Red and blue lights flash like they're trying to keep time with my pulse.
Everything smells like wet asphalt, rubber, and panic.
I take a breath.
Then another.
Ground yourself, Delia.
It doesn’t help.
Because there’s fire.
I can smell it before I see it—sharp, acrid, greedy.
I can hear it, too, underneath the sirens. That low, insistent roar that sounds like the world is exhaling through clenched teeth.
And worse than that?
I like it.
Not in a sicko, burn-it-all-down way.
Just... there’s something about fire.
Something wild.
Untamed.
Unforgiving.
You don’t reason with it.
You don’t negotiate with it.
You either meet it head-on—or you don’t walk away.
And that used to be the whole point.
