There were no sirens at first—just the soft crackle of something coming undone.
Kaito stood still in the doorway, the matchstick flickering between his fingers. It was absurd, almost funny, how quiet destruction could be. One spark. One slow breath. And everything you hate begins to burn.
His room—his prison—lit up before him. Not in rage, but in quiet release. The old math textbooks. His torn uniform. The trophies his father polished but never earned. The belt that hung behind the closet. The notes he wrote to himself at midnight when the world forgot he existed.
All of it.
He didn't look away. Didn't run.
The fire wasn't angry. It was gentle. Soft, even. Like a friend saying, Let's go now.
By the time the neighbors noticed, it was already too late. They dragged Kaito out, coughing, eyes glassy and distant. Someone shouted his name, but he didn't flinch. In his mind, he was still in that room—watching the walls that watched him for so long finally melt.
The police called it arson.
The counselors called it trauma.
But Kaito? He called it the beginning.
He was sent away—to a place with white walls and people who spoke in worried tones. But even there, the fire stayed with him. Not to hurt. To protect. To remind him that he was no longer small. That the heat inside him meant something.
And late at night, when no one watched, he'd press his palms together… and feel the warmth rise again