Fire and Stardust

Chapter I

One last time.

One last job, and I'll leave the White Wolves—the largest and most merciless international gang of North America—forever. For three years, I've done their bidding, been a dutiful soldier. I've killed countless people in their name and my hands are covered in blood I can't wash off, but I did it—all of it—to survive. I've done a lot to survive.

 The Wolves expect a lifetime of service, but I've been quietly making an escape plan. It's flimsy, relying on the loyalty of an old "friend", and I'm prepared to watch it fall apart—but I'm done. I have to be done. These years have changed me, let something inside of me out that wasn't supposed to be: a blinding, violent rage. I'm afraid of what might happen if I continue to let my dark side fester. 

To start off my plan, I have to complete my final hit. This will give me about three to four days before they check in again; enough time to get a strong head start. My targets? The Gray family.

I exit through my back window onto the fire escape—to avoid the cameras—and climb to the asphalt, a red jug tucked under my arm. From there, it's a short walk to their house, and I've memorized the route from the past week I've been staking it out. I push my dark, unruly waves behind my hood after the wind whips them into my face a few times.

Quickly reaching the white two-story, I make a beeline for the point of entry I'd picked: an unlocked second floor window next to an old swing set. I waste no time in climbing up to the top wooden beam and walking across to the window. After prying it open, I enter first and reach out for the red container.

It's pitch black inside. My vision slowly adjusts to the empty guest room as I unscrew the container's lid. Immediately, the overpowering scent of gasoline fills the room. I leave a trail behind me and start making my way through the house, edging along the walls to avoid being illuminated by the few lights that are on.

A familiar, unsettling feeling starts to twist in my stomach. My movements are methodical, routine as I cover most of the house in gasoline, but something about hearing the quiet splash of it hitting the floors is so morbidly satisfying. Maybe it's the knowledge of what it's about to become.

I think the part that I like the most is that the residents of the house are unsuspecting. They're simply sleeping in their quiet suburban home, unaware of the fact that I'm inside. Why should they be able to live peacefully when I can't? I'm just giving them a taste of their own medicine. All of these people live in their own little bubble. They're selfish. They don't care that others are suffering. They just live their selfish lives without thinking of anyone else. They deserve to experience pain like I have.

I cover both floors with relative ease, heading back upstairs to use the same exit. I left the hallway barren of gasoline so that I have an escape route, knowing it will catch with the rest of the house. That does include the son's room, which is right near the guest room, but the whole house will be ablaze a few minutes after I drop the match I just lit.

I put the matchbox back in my pocket, staring at the flame dancing at the top of it. This is how the selfish are punished. This is how they get what they deserve. This is how I get even.

I drop the match. As soon as it falls to the gasoline, it starts a chain reaction of sweeping waves of fire. Deadly orange waves quickly begin bursting against the walls, demanding to engulf everything in its path. It's mesmerizing to watch the flames devour the house and satisfies something deep inside of me, but I have to leave the house while I still can.

As I turn for the exit, I hear something—a scratching. I have to investigate it; it could be someone who's awake and can call emergency services before the fire is done.

My search leads me to the last room. The door is partially open, light spilling from its frame. Carefully—empty jug in hand as a possible weapon—I enter. 

Inside is a boy that looks roughly my age, likely a year or so younger. He must be the youngest of the house, seventeen-year-old Ellis Gray. He sits at his desk, content and unaware, with music blasting so loudly from his headphones that I can hear it from his doorway. He's intently hunched over a piece of paper, pencil retracing the same lines over and over—creating the sound that brought me here. There's care and deliberation in the motions, but there's also fervor, desperation.

Suddenly, he tenses and straightens. His head swivels ever so slowly until he sees me and stiffens with fear; our eyes meet.

He has a head of wild, dark brown curls, speckled with bright strands of golden blond, and his eyes are a dark blue. They swirl with bright gold specks, fighting with a rich amber undertone. Even though they're wide and terrified, they're vibrant. Alive. 

The regret hits me all at once. Usually, it takes a bit longer, but seeing one of my victims up close hurts like hell. He's innocent. He hasn't done anything. He hasn't hurt anyone. I'm the only one who's hurt anyone.

Maybe it's the expression on his face. Maybe it's the hope, the gold, the stardust I see in his eyes. Maybe it's the thought that killing him would deem me unworthy of the escape and happy ending I'm trying to achieve. Whatever it is, I decide that the innocent, youngest member of the Gray household will not die tonight.

His shaking hands pull his headphones off. He doesn't speak, just watches me with those compelling eyes. Impulsively, I stride forward, hand outstretched.

"We have to get out of here. Take my hand."

"Who are you?" he asks in a surprisingly level voice.

"Not important. We have to go. Now."

He appraises me for a few moments, chest rising and falling fast. Finally, he meets my gaze, the stardust in his eyes blazing.

"Okay."

He takes my hand.