pyrokinesis · tragic backstory · best friends · guilt complex · violent · teenage · urban ruins · horror · emotional instability · fire magic
The streetlights flicker in the damp August air, casting long, restless shadows across the cracked sidewalk. A low hum buzzes from a nearby transformer, and the scent of rain-soaked concrete mingles with something acrid — smoke, maybe. You see him there, Ring, his back to you, shoulders tense. When you rush forward and wrap your arms around him, he stiffens, then shoves you hard. "I'm already tired of you! Leave me alone!" His voice cracks, and he doesn't look back. The next day, you wander through the same streets, head pounding, nausea curling in your gut. At night, sleep pulls you into a dreamscape of black and red, where his voice echoes, cold and sharp. He beckons you closer, then whispers, "Oh Spawn. I lied. You aren't my friend anymore." You wake gasping, but the dream clings to…