The fire did not roar anymore.
It breathed.
Low, guttural, as if the earth itself were alive and wounded—embers glowing beneath collapsed stone, smoke curling upward in slow, exhausted plumes. Rain kept falling, thin and relentless, turning ash into black rivulets that bled down broken walls.
Everyone thought it was finished.
Everyone except Aiden.
He lay on the stretcher near the perimeter, oxygen mask fogging with each uneven breath, body screaming in pain he refused to acknowledge. Vinny's hand was still gripping his, knuckles white, trembling like if he let go the night would steal him again.
But Aiden's eyes weren't on Vinny.
They were fixed on the fire.
On the place that had swallowed years of his life and dared to still exist.
A sound reached him then.
Faint.
Metal scraping stone.
Aiden's breath hitched.
"Vin," he whispered.
Vinny leaned closer. "I'm here."
Aiden swallowed. "He's alive."
Vinny froze. "What?"
