Jinx lies in the darkness of Silco's office, the cold floor digging into her back like it's trying to swallow her whole. Her breath is shallow, uneven──each inhale scraping against her chest, as if her lungs are full of broken glass. She's held on for so long, clinging to the idea of protecting those she loved, but now the world around her feels like a wasteland──empty, barren, a place where nothing grows, where nothing matters.

The dim light from the stained-glass window seeps through, casting fractured roses on the walls and floor. The glass is cracked and streaked with dirt, the colours muted, as if the life once held here has drained away. Yet, she can't look away, staring at them as the jagged shadows splinter and crawl over her like ghosts.

Her hair, once long and wild, lies around her in uneven, lifeless clumps──severed, tangled, ruined.

How long has she been here? Hours? Days? It all feels the same. Time has bled out like the rest of her life. All that matters is the ache, the all-consuming ache, coiling through her chest like a vine, twisting around her ribs and squeezing her heart until it threatens to burst.

Her fingers twitch against the floor, scraping at the cold surface, grasping at nothing, as if she could dig her way into oblivion. Maybe if she disappears, the pain will stop. Maybe death is just falling asleep, slipping away into nothing, where the world can't hurt her anymore. Where she can finally be free.

But the silence... the silence is worse than any explosion. It's suffocating, eating at her from the inside. With a groan that doesn't sound like her own, Jinx drags herself up. Her knees buckle, her body threatening to betray her, and for a moment, the room tilts, spins, as if the very world is turning away from her. But she steadies herself.

Her breath is shallow, her eyes lifting to the ceiling. She searches for something──anything──but there's nothing. No solace. No sign. No answer.

Just darkness.

Her lips part, as if to scream, to tear the pain from her throat and throw it into the world, but the sound catches in her chest and dies there. Even that is taken from her.

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The two bottles of kerosene feel heavy in her hands as she trudges across the bar, moving without thought, without hesitation. The liquid splashes onto the grimy floor, pooling like blood, twisting her stomach in knots. But she doesn't care. She slings it across the tables, the booths, the counter──dousing everything. Every memory. Every mistake. Every wound this place has ever inflicted on her.

Her feet drag her back to Silco's office. When she reaches the door, her hand hovers just above the handle, frozen. It trembles, unsure whether to give in, unsure whether to turn away. With a shaky exhale, she forces herself to push it open.

Stepping inside, her eyes immediately lock onto that goddamn chair. His chair. It sits there, still, untouched, slightly turned as if he's just stepped away, as if he might walk back in at any moment. As if his tired voice might call her name.

The bottles nearly slip from her hands.

Her vision blurs. She can almost see him──sitting there, sorting through papers, lost in thoughts that were never hers to understand. And she would throw herself onto the desk, babbling about something ridiculous just to pull his attention away. She can still hear his voice, low and patient, as he'd indulge her every time. He always did.

But Silco isn't here. Not anymore.

He's gone.

Gone.

Gone.

Gone.

And it's all her fault.

She wants to scream. She wants to tear that chair apart, burn it down, destroy everything it represents. She wants to scream that it's not fair. It's not fair that she's still here, still breathing, when he's gone. When they're all gone.

She pours the kerosene over the desk, watching it stain the papers, the ink, everything that was once his. Her hands are unsteady, the bottle slipping in her grip. The last of it spills onto the chair. The sharp, acrid smell clings to her skin, burns her throat, but she doesn't care. Her fingers twitch as she grips the empty bottle, her chest heaving, fighting for breath that feels like it will never come.

She stands there for a long moment, staring at the chair. At the wreckage she's made. At everything she's about to destroy.

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The match flares to life, its fragile flame shivering in the dark. Warm, golden light dances across Jinx's face, tracing the shadows under her eyes, the slight quiver in her jaw. She stares into the flickering glow, transfixed. It holds her, this tiny, dying thing, like it's the only piece of calm she's ever known. The only thing small enough to fit the chaos churning inside her.

Her fingers tighten around the matchstick, the wood biting into her skin. She wonders, for just a moment, if the fire knows her better than anyone ever did. If it would understand. If it would be kind. She imagines the flame spreading, growing, devouring her whole. The thought doesn't scare her. It doesn't twist her gut or make her knees go weak.

It feels... right.

She exhales, a broken, stuttering sound that could have been a sob if she had anything left to cry with.

The match slips from her fingers.

It lands softly. The tiny flame licks at the floor like it's hungry, starving, waiting for permission to feast. And when it finds it, it spreads fast. Too fast. Flames crawl across the rotting wood, eating through splintered walls, clawing at the ceiling──a chorus of crackling wood and searing heat. Smoke rises, thick and suffocating, clinging to her lungs, but she doesn't cough. Doesn't flinch.

Behind her, glass shatters violently, a sound that should make her jump but doesn't. Walls groan and buckle, collapsing in on themselves, flames pouring into the wreckage like liquid fury. She should feel something, she thinks. Relief, maybe. Or anger. Or sorrow.

But she feels nothing.

The fire screams around her, alive, angry, desperate, but she stays. Her boots don't shuffle, her breath doesn't quicken. Her eyes don't close. She just watches. Watches as it eats the room alive, as it erases everything that ever mattered in it. Watches as it takes Silco's chair, curling its fiery fingers around the edges, pulling it under.

Silco's chair. His place. His world.

Gone.

She doesn't know why she thought this would fix it. Why she thought the fire could burn away the things festering inside her, the things she can't outrun.

The flames crawl closer, greedy and insistent, licking at her boots. But they don't burn her. They never do. Not her.

She turns, finally, her steps slow and deliberate. The world behind her is an inferno, roaring, thrashing, crying out for her. It wants her to stay, to finish what she started. But she doesn't look back.

Not when the explosion rips through The Last Drop, shaking the ground, throwing molten debris into the air. Not when she pictures Silco's shadow burned into the walls, his legacy reduced to ash. Not when she feels the fire dying behind her, smothered by its own hunger.

The streets of Zaun are dead silent as she walks, her boots crunching through shattered glass and burned wreckage. The glow of the fire flickers against the grime-coated walls, but it doesn't warm her.

It's cold.

Colder than it's ever been.

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Back at her hideout, the world feels unbearably quiet again. Not the kind of quiet that soothes, but the kind that screams. It presses against her skull, gnaws at her chest, and crawls under her skin until she can barely stand being inside herself. She stands at the edge of the platform, staring into the void beneath her. It stretches endlessly, black and cold, waiting. Always waiting. The wind bites at her face, sharp as broken glass, and whispers words that twist like knives. Or maybe those whispers are her own thoughts. She can't tell anymore.

Her chest feels like it's caving in, every breath a fight she doesn't have the strength to win. She's nothing but the fragile shell of someone who once believed she could matter. She's done. So goddamned tired. There's no fight left in her, no fire, no rebellion──just ruin. Just ash.

Her gaze falls to the blue gemstone cradled in her palm. Its light flickers weakly, almost mockingly, like it knows. Once, it was everything. A promise. A future. A hope. Now, it's a cruel joke, a bitter reminder of everything she couldn't hold onto. Everything she let slip through her bloodied fingers. Isha. Sweet, bright-eyed Isha. Her laugh still echoes in Jinx's ears, an ache that won't fade. Isha, who trusted her. Believed in her.

Jinx couldn't save her.

Tears well up, hot and stinging, blurring her vision until the world becomes a smear of colour and pain. She hates herself for crying. Hates herself for caring, for clinging to this stupid, meaningless shard of a life that only ever breaks and burns.

She slips the gemstone into the monkey grenade, her hands shaking so violently she nearly drops it. But she doesn't. Her fingers tighten, muscle memory taking over even as her mind screams at her to stop, to think, to do anything but this. But thinking only makes it worse. Thinking reminds her of the laughter she'll never hear again. The hands she'll never hold. The faces she'll never see. Thinking is a torment she can't bear.

The gemstone clicks into place with a sound that feels like a death knell. Her heart lurches, pounding against her ribs like it's trying to escape. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. The choice is already made. A hundred times, a thousand times, she's made it. This is just... the last step.

She pulls the pin.

It feels too easy. Too simple. Like it should have been harder, like she should have fought it more. But the thought feels like a betrayal, a solution too simple for too much pain, and yet, she doesn't care. She can't care anymore.

Her eyes close, her lashes damp with tears she doesn't bother to wipe away. She lets herself imagine for just a moment. Silco, his face stern but soft in a way he'd never admit. Isha, her small hand slipping into Jinx's, trusting and warm. In her mind, they're waiting for her. They're whole. They're alive. They're together. Somewhere she can't follow.

The explosion comes, tearing through her in a flash of blinding light and searing heat. It's violent and cruel, shredding what little is left of her. And yet, as the end rushes in with sound and fury, it fades into nothing: silence, stillness, the kind of quiet that no longer screams. It's almost... gentle. Like a release. Like forgiveness. Like surrender.

As the world burns, as it crumbles to dust, the last thing she sees is Isha's face. Smiling. Bright. Unbroken. The last memory that hasn't been tainted by all the things Jinx couldn't save.

It's almost enough to feel like peace.

Almost.

But peace... peace is for the living.

And Jinx is already gone──