The Red Light

The storm hit three days before the IPO launch.

It was a violent autumn squall, lashing rain against the glass walls of the tower. Thunder shook the foundation of the building.

Damian was in his office, pacing. The barometric pressure was making the static return, creeping around the edges of Elara’s influence. He felt edgy, like an animal sensing a trap.

At midnight, the lightning struck the main transformer on the block.

*BOOM.*

The building plunged into darkness.

A second later, the backup generators kicked in. But they didn't restore the full lights. They triggered the emergency system.

Red lights.

Spinning, pulsing, blood-red lights flooded the hallway and the office.

Damian froze.

To his brain, it wasn't light. It was fire.

The hallway was burning. The walls were melting. The heat was instantaneous and suffocating.

"No," Damian gasped, backing away until he hit his desk. "No, no, not again."

He slid down to the floor, clutching his head. The hallway was a tunnel of flame. He couldn't breathe. The smoke was filling his lungs. He was dying. He was burning alive.

"Damian!"

A voice called from the inferno.

He curled into a ball, shaking violently. "Get out! Get out, it's collapsing!"

"Damian, look at me!"

Hands grabbed his shoulders. He flinched, expecting to be burned, but the hands were cool.

"It's not real," the voice said. "It's just the lights. Breathe."

Damian opened his eyes. He saw a face hovering above him, bathed in the red glow.

Elara.

But it wasn't Elara. It was *her*. Her hair was bobbed short, styled in finger waves. She was wearing a silk dress covered in soot. She was coughing, her eyes wide with terror.

*“Julian, the beam! Move!”*

The memory slammed into him with the force of a freight train.

*1926. The jazz club. The smell of gin and old wood. The sparks from the faulty wiring. The scream of the crowd. He was trying to get to the door, but the roof was coming down. He pushed her out. He pushed her to safety. But she turned back. She ran back for him.*

*“I’m not leaving you!” she screamed.*

*The beam fell. It hit her. The dress caught fire. He screamed her name, but the smoke took her.*

"No!" Damian screamed in the present, thrashing against the memory. "Elara! Don't come back! Run!"

"I'm here," Elara said firmly, pulling him against her chest. She rocked him, stroking his hair. "I'm here, Damian. I've got you. I won't let you burn this time."

*I won't let you burn this time.*

The words acted as a key. The lock in Damian’s mind shattered.

He saw it all. The wedding in Central Park. The small apartment in the Village. The way he played the saxophone while she sang. The love that they had promised would last forever. And the fire that ended it.

The pain in his head exploded into a white-hot supernova.

"Elara," he gasped, clutching her denim jacket. "You died. You came back for me and you died."

"We both did," Elara sobbed, holding him tighter. "But we're here now. We're safe."

Damian looked at her. The past and the present overlaid, dizzying and terrifying. He looked at the red lights. He felt the phantom heat searing his skin.

His mind couldn't handle the duality. The walls of his psyche, built on control and repression, buckled.

"I can't," Damian whispered. "I can't do this."

His eyes rolled back. The darkness took him.

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