Layla woke up to the sound of shouting.
The group home director's voice boomed down the hall—sharp, cutting, the kind that made the other girls freeze mid-step.
"Layla!"
Her heart slammed. She sat up, light flooding the room, that same bleach smell thick in her throat.
The door burst open. The director's face was red, eyes tight with fury. "Where were you last night?"
Layla blinked. "Here."
"Don't lie to me!"
Behind her, one of the staff held up a small black plastic bag, sealed and labeled. "Found under her mattress."
Layla's stomach dropped.
---
The Discovery
She didn't need to open it to know. It was the same kind of bag she'd carried to the red door. The same kind of bag she hadn't dared to ask about.
The words stuck in her throat. She could feel every eye in the hallway on her, every whisper slicing through the air.
"I don't know what that is," she said, voice low.
The director's lip curled. "You think we're stupid? Do you know what's inside this, Layla? Do you know what kind of trouble this is?"
She didn't. She didn't want to.
---
The Isolation Room
They locked her in a small office until the cops left. The walls hummed with the sound of fluorescent lights. Every second felt longer than the last.
When the director came back, her voice was quieter, but colder. "The police aren't charging you—for now. But we're moving you to a different facility. You're a danger here."
Layla stared at the floor. The fire inside her wasn't gone—it was just smothered, burning low under the weight of guilt.
"Where's Marcy?" she asked.
The director's expression didn't change. "She ran."
---
The Collapse
That night, Layla packed her few things into a trash bag—the system's version of a suitcase. Clothes, toothbrush, the tattered notebook. Her hands trembled as she zipped it closed.
She wanted to hate Marcy. Wanted to scream. But mostly, she just felt hollow.
Because Marcy had been the first person who made her feel seen. And now, even that was gone.
The staff watched her like she was contagious as they led her to the van. No one spoke. The world outside blurred into streaks of light and rain.
---
The Sketch
In the back seat, Layla opened her notebook. Her pencil scraped hard against the paper, almost tearing it.
She drew Marcy's face—eyes wild, mouth open in a laugh—but this time, the flame above her head flickered out.
Then she drew herself again. Not with a bright fire. Not with control. Just a small ember, faint but still alive.
Underneath, she wrote: Even ashes glow.
---
The Ride
The van turned down an unfamiliar road. Layla looked out the window, headlights glinting off chain-link fences and cracked sidewalks. The next stop wasn't freedom. It was another "placement." Another number. Another cage.
But as the city lights faded behind her, she pressed her palm to her chest and felt it—the fire. Weak, but still there.
It had survived the bleach. The streets. The lies. Even the betrayal.
And somewhere, deep down, she knew: Jayden's fire was still out there too.