His Ember, Her Fyre

Prologue

Prologue

Ember's P.O.V.

In the city of Montreal—somewhere in Canada—I was left for dead. Well, according to my late orphanage owners, anyway. Growing up in an orphanage, I never thought I’d experience the s**t I did—especially at the hands of the very people deemed “safe” by this f****d-up government. They wore smiles like masks as they walked with their clipboards and false promises. I was 4 the first time—twelve when I started fighting back. I still remember the flicker of fluorescent lights above me while their footsteps echoed down the hallway—slow, deliberate, like they knew I couldn’t run. They kept coming. Until I made damn sure it never happened again. They didn’t expect me to fight back. They never did. But I learned how to wait in silence. That night, it was either them or me. I chose me. People stopped calling me a victim after that and started calling me cold. Fine. Let them. Cold doesn’t bleed. Cold doesn't break. After everything I've endured, I decided my motto would be: I don’t care. So I didn't care for much. Not for the bruises. Not the whispers. Not even the look in the mirror when my face started looking more like someone I didn’t know. I didn't care for much. Not even when I put myself through medical school and worked my ass off to become one of the best damn doctors Montreal has ever seen. I find it funny that I can stitch up others better than I ever stitch up myself. I kept my head down, drowned myself in textbooks and double shifts, because distraction was safer than remembering. I didn't care for much… until I met him.

Fyre's P.O.V.

I’m as broken as they come. Don’t bother looking for a clean piece—I left that behind years ago. My scars run more profound than my skin. Some are stitched with barbed wire. But the worst ones, though? You can’t see those. They live in the silence between midnight and morning. I refuse to let anyone in. Doors stay locked for a reason. People like me are better off alone. Maybe ending up in prison was for the best. At least here, the monsters wear uniforms, and you know what time they eat. Confinement—it’s what keeps the world safe from me. I’ve got blood on my hands and sins I don’t even regret. Maybe ending up in prison was for the best… until it wasn’t anymore. I felt the shift. The guards looked at me differently. The whispers started. I wasn’t meant to survive the last riot. But I did. The darkness clouding my gaze as I was hanging onto life left me with one question: Why should I? What’s the point in surviving when survival is the only thing I know? Then I met the ember to my dimmed fire… Fiery, reckless, a mystery. I saw her through the blood haze—eyes like wildfire, hands steady as the world spun around me. An angel with iron in her spine. She’s why.