Tender is the flame I ride on a diaphanous dream, cataclysm shivering beneath my grip, as the razor-thin mouth snaps shut. My hands—pincers— bear the boulder-pain of it. But for what? The question erupts, an inferno doused with the gasoline of doubt, before a flash flood of sand entombs it in obsidian. The pain is alive. Still, I will not let it ruin this. Let the marred part of me die if it must. I swing into the premises with the agility of a rogue raised by Knight Templars, a paper plane narrowing toward a fate of ash. My feet welcome the pontificating cobbles. I leap toward the calling siren, crowbar in hand, and wrench its defenses wide with hunger. A groan— then another— and it opens. They shimmer. They glitter on this starry night. Mine for the taking. The thief in me jubilates. The gambit has paid But when I leave, I leave limping, with ash in my lungs and something holy missing, as though the prize had reached inside me too and stolen back whatever still knew how to be saved.