Fiery Little Thing: Chapter 27

Six Months Later Blood rushes through my ears in a roaring rhythm as I tap my foot against the car floor. My swollen bottom lip aches from how much I’ve been gnawing on it these past few days. Kohen squeezes my thigh and continues rubbing soothing circles while keeping his other hand on the wheel. He’s been shooting me worried glances since we left our apartment this morning—even more, now that we both have ski masks on and my vengeance is within reach.

“Breathe, Klepto.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I snap, gritting my teeth.

The radio can barely be heard above the roar of the struggling Honda Civic I stole in another state last week. The engine is screwed up, but the model is new enough to pass through any neighborhood without raising alarm bells. We changed the plates to a new set, and there’s a fresh—badly done—coat of silver paint on it, so no camera can link the car back.

The quiet streets we drive down are filled with mansions, sprawling farmland, and forestry, all deserted under the obstructed moonlight. My grandfather’s manor is out in the countryside, where the government hasn’t bothered using tax dollars to buy streetlights to illuminate the barren roads. Which means there’s no telling how many cameras are witnessing our arrival.

I haven’t seen or heard from Jonathan since I ran from Seraphic Hills six months ago. Kohen has heard from his family plenty of times—less now that they’re experiencing financial difficulties. But my grandfather? Dead silence. Part of me thinks we’re about to walk into a trap. The other part—the hopeful part—suspects he doesn’t want to waste resources trying to find me. When I was younger, every time my mother fell off the wagon, and I went running to him to find her, his response was always a cold “She’ll show up eventually. People like her always do.” Maybe that’s what he thinks of me.

Picking at my nail bed, I try to figure out what I will say to my grandfather. I’ve had months to work it out, but nothing feels right. I have so many questions, but I also want to make him beg for my forgiveness even though I know he’ll never lower himself. Men like him will never kneel for anything unless I cut off his feet.

But what if my grandmother canceled her trip to my uncle’s and stayed home. She’s a grade A bitch, but I don’t want to kill the woman. Tonight, only one person dies.

Six months of planning, learning how to carjack, deciding how I want him to go, figuring out my grandfather’s schedule and his security—or lack thereof nowadays. I’ve been busy, to say the least. All the while, Kohen has lived a seminormal life in college and has been taking weekly extracurriculars to keep the scholarship grants coming. He even got me taking a martial arts class, and I learned how to use a gun. Kohen’s becoming an upstanding citizen while I’m shaping up to become the perfect criminal.

Kohen gives my thigh another squeeze as he pulls onto the curb and parks the car a couple yards away from the border of my grandfather’s property.

“You ready?” Kohen’s voice usually soothes the violent thrumming in my veins, but tonight, no amount of smooth-talking will settle my nerves.

Any snarky comment or joke I want to say to lift the somber atmosphere dies before it makes it to my tongue. Once we step out of the car, two things could happen.

One, we succeed. My grandfather dies, and then Kohen and I go back to our normal lives.

Or two, we fail miserably.

I give him a tight nod in response to his question, then step out of the car, double-checking that my gun is safe in my pocket before righting the oversized black coat that’s been lined with weights and stuffed to make me look larger than I am. We didn’t see any cameras in this particular area all the times we’ve staked the place out, but there’s no telling if we might have missed one. Not to mention that even though it’s almost midnight and the temperature is toeing the line of freezing, there could be someone out here to witness our crimes.

Glancing back at Kohen, he tosses me one of the duffle bags stuffed with more empty bags. Then he swings his own duffle onto his back and readjusts his ski mask before grabbing the three gas canisters .

My oversized boots slap the ground as I follow behind him toward the brick wall that stands two feet taller than me. Kohen kneels on the wet grass in front of the fence, cupping his gloved hands atop his knee. I shakily place my foot into his waiting hands and mentally prepare myself for the ache that will follow. He bears the brunt of my weight and gives me a boost up the wall, but it doesn’t stop me from swallowing a whimper as I grip the edge of the brick. Just as I expected, pain slices through my middle knuckle as I force my fingers to latch on to the fence. No amount of exercising will change the fact that the knuckle didn’t set right—and we don’t exactly have the finances to afford surgically correcting it.

So I’m left grinding my teeth as I swing my leg over when Kohen hoists me up the wall, hissing under my breath when my hand slips out from under me.

Kohen catches my waist before I tumble down. “I’ve got you,” he whispers.

Both of my hands tremble in my attempts to pull the rest of my body onto the ledge. Adrenaline won’t change the state of my knuckle, but it’s doing a good job of numbing the ache that cuts through the inside of my thigh when it scrapes against the edge of the fence.

Panting, I take the three gas canisters from Kohen and balance them on the wall. I offer Kohen my good arm to help him up. He rightfully ignores it, hauling himself up the side of the fences with more grace than a feline. He drops to the other side without so much as a thud. One by one, he lowers the canisters onto the ground, then holds his arm out to help me down to limit the pressure of the fall, because my ankle still gives me grief intermittently. And tonight, of all nights, is not a time for grieving.

I pull my leg over and jump into his arms. Neither of us hesitate from the second I hit the ground, weaving between the trees planted on the outskirts of the manor, careful not to make a sound. My harsh breaths come out in a cloud in front of me as my heart pounds in my ears. Every snap of a twig and rustling of leaves seem as if they’ve been amplified through a microphone, and it might as well be a siren to alert everyone to our presence.

None of my grandfather’s help will be on the property since everyone has been sent home for Thanksgiving—at least that was the excuse he made. The truth is that he’s cutting down costs where he can. Meaning he’s all alone in the redbrick mansion to drown under the mountain of paperwork and debt caused by the man beside me. Once the first glimpse of sunlight blooms across the sky, staff will trickle in to start working so the neighbors think it’s business as usual.

The Whitlock Investment and Osman Pharmaceutical transaction has blown up in their faces, leaving good ol’ Grandpa short of $120 million. Whitlock Investment has lost almost triple that.

No interest on his investments. No return. Half a billion dollars just… gone.

All the while his big-dog lawyers make him bleed more money. It brings me more joy than anyone will ever realize to know that my grandfather has spent the last few months of his life swimming in stress.

We stick to the outskirts, hidden within the safety of the trees, as we sneak deeper into the property. Kohen and I have staked out this area a couple times before. I thought the familiarity would dispel my worry and replace it with misguided arrogance, but it doesn’t. My gut twists as we break past the line of trees and head into open space. It’s as if I’ve never been here before from the rush of uncertainty that floods my veins.

My grandfather is right behind those walls. What will he say once he sees me? Will he be surprised, or scared, or will he not give a shit? Will he beg me to spare his life or run like a coward?

Cameras are stationed around the redbrick house, flashing a green light that makes me falter as we move through the courtyard. I have to reassure myself that the cameras mean nothing when the mainframe gets torched. His security team won’t arrive for a few more hours. And either way, we’re dressed well enough to conceal our identity.

A shiver runs down my spine when I spot the indoor swimming pool. We avoid all windows and sprint to the kitchen door. Some lights are on inside, but not a soul is in sight.

I would give anything for a hit of coke or weed or fucking anything I can get my hands on, just to ease the pain beneath my chest. I thought fighting the cravings would be easier after seven months, but still, every morning, I wake up itching for the euphoria that comes from delirium. I’d be fucking unstoppable if I just had the slightest bump.

But I can’t. Not anymore. I’ve come too far to fall back into the same habits. I have a mission—a goal—and that’s what matters now. I can get my kicks from making those who wronged me suffer.

It felt satisfying killing Boris. It was empowering to hear that Dr. Van der Merwe lost his practicing license following an “anonymous” tip. And I can only imagine what it will feel like to get rid of the man who caused it all—my grandfather.

My ankle tweaks from running, but I push forward, breathing hard through my nose as cold sweat builds beneath the mask. It gets harder to breathe with each passing second, and my vision blurs with the rush of energy that zaps through me when I kneel in front of the back door. I blink the haze back, attempting to push all thoughts out of my mind to focus on the task at hand.

Emotions are a weakness that leave room for error. I’ll never forgive myself if I fuck this up because I couldn’t keep my feelings in check. The counselor back at school always said a little anxiety is a good thing; having a lot is where the problem lies. I’m trying so hard to find the balance, but steadying my racing heart doesn’t come any easier.

The thin lockpick sits awkwardly in my right hand as I grip it, my gloved fingers making my hold lighter than I would have liked. My middle finger sticks out above the rest, and the little muscles in my hand strain to compensate for the lack of support. I’ve had to practice picking locks every single goddamn day for this very reason. Kohen could’ve been the one to do this, but instead he’s spent the past six months whispering words of encouragement every time frustration took hold because of another failed attempt. But he never once offered to learn because he knows I need to prove to myself that I’m not limited by the confines of my flesh, and that I’m not defined by my wounds. Each time I improve my skills, I’m reminded that I don’t need to be perfect to be powerful.

The lock clicks open in under ten seconds—it would be faster if I had a better hold on the tools.

In the name of practice, we’ve broken into a few people’s homes over the past six months, so it’s easy enough to fall into our roles without needing to say a word. I push the door open and Kohen slips in first, gun in hand, leaving the canisters where they are. I stay on my haunches for a moment to take one more solidifying breath before slipping in behind him .

The kitchen is shrouded in darkness; even so I can tell it’s spotless. Lifeless. The only light in the room comes from the dim hallway. I only vaguely remember the layout of the interior from when I was a child. We navigate through the halls, following the light leading from the foyer. Our feet pad softly along the wooden floor as we keep our heads on a swivel for any sign of movement.

There’s not a single sound coming from inside the house other than my thundering pulse, but I know my grandfather is here. I can feel it in my bones.

My breathing shudders as I look left and right, drinking in every inch of the place. The manor hasn’t changed much as far as I can remember. The walls are still pristinely white, the staircase is still grand, and the crystal chandelier is still bright. Great, big antique vases and flowers line the corners of the otherwise barren entrance hall. Baroque- and Impressionism-style paintings decorate the walls instead of portraits or family photos.

I think it’s smarter for us to split up—it’s an argument Kohen and I have had before, but each time he wins because I can’t curl my hand into a fist if something goes wrong, my ankle ends up bruised and swollen every time I use it wrong, and frankly, I’d rather have Kohen by my side. So we stick together and move through the foyer toward the east wing.

The sight of the poster beds, goose down pillows, and tables that aren’t being balanced on folded food boxes makes my anger push through the anxiety that’s clogging my throat, turning the room into various shades of red.

This is how he’s fucking lived while I questioned when my next meal would be. In the middle of fucking winter, I had a goddamn T-shirt in place of glass for my window. I didn’t have a lock on my front door, and only a broken latch in the bathroom. My mattress was as old as I was, and a couple planks on my bed frame were being held together by duct tape and a miracle. My grandfather sent me fifty dollars a week to live off. He’d hold food hostage. He waited two years before fixing the leak in my bedroom. At one point, I didn’t have a working fridge for seven months.

All while my grandparents have been here with heated floors and thousands of dollars’ worth of art on every single wall. He has a crystal fucking chandelier, an indoor swimming pool, a golf course, and a ten-car garage. The assholes have three water fountains for Christ’s sake.

My grip tightens around my gun, and I relish in the ache that pierces through my knuckle.

Fuck the Whitlocks.

Fuck. Them.

If my grandma is here too, may she rest in peace.

As we slip further into the house, the pounding in my chest morphs into something twisted and fueled with bloodlust. A smile almost tugs at my lips as we check all the rooms downstairs to ensure they’re empty. With each room that comes up empty, the exhilaration becomes more intoxicating, as if I’ve caught a scent and I can already feel the flesh rip beneath my teeth. The thrill of the hunt, a predator chasing down its prey—it has to be the best part.

Jonathan Whitlock Sr. is going to die tonight. This time, the thought comes with a jagged edge of sadistic glee.

Kohen nods to himself when we find the control room that holds the security footage from around the manor, likely making a mental note to come back to it later. When all the rooms downstairs come up empty, we slip back into the main hall and inch up the stairs without a single creak of the wood beneath our feet.

A Fabergé egg greets us as soon as we reach the top step. Kohen slips it into my duffle bag, no questions asked, then points toward the open door further along. A couple lamps are lit in the corridor, but light streams from only one of the rooms. If memory serves correctly, it’s my grandfather’s office. And if the silence that envelops us is any indication, he’s alone.

I hand my duffle bag to Kohen so he can stockpile it with sellable tokens to make up for my lack of place in my grandfather’s will. Kohen’s strong hand wraps around the top of my elbow before I make it further, and he drops his forehead to mine, enveloping me with his warmth. It’s a silent reminder that I’m not alone. He’ll be right there on the other side, waiting for me.

Kohen brings his face down next to my ear, rubbing our masks together as he whispers, “I love you.”

I love you too.

It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I still can’t bring myself to say it after all these months. I love him, and there’s nothing else that could be truer in this godforsaken universe. He deserves to know that at least one person in the world will always be in his corner. Even if he never heard the words spoken to him as a child, he’s still capable of being loved.

He needs to hear it just as much as I do. Still, the words don’t come out. I will always be a failure in some ways.

Kohen pulls away, leaving me in the middle of the corridor with the lingering remnants of his comfort to head toward my grandparents’ bedroom, where he’ll stockpile, then empty the gasoline canisters all over the house.

I don’t know how long I stand there, frozen as I look around the place I could have called home, if only my grandparents loved me in the way grandparents should. Maybe I would have smelled my grandmother’s baking and learned my cousin’s first name. Maybe I’d have discovered whether my uncle looks like my mother in real life or just in photos. I could have played dolls on the stairs or done a twirl as I descended toward my prom date who I’d have two-and-a-half kids with. I might have even bought a house in this area and stayed home to raise children while my husband has one too many “late nights” at work.

But none of those things has or will ever happen.

My mother may have started her life in this hell, but she ended up on the streets. On the other hand, this kind of life with private chefs and maids isn’t a life I’ll ever be familiar with. Now I have a roof over my head, food in the cupboard, a human heater to keep me warm through the night. Safe. Consistent. It’s more than I could’ve ever asked for. I’ve even been talking to Sue on the phone every week since I left the motel—last month we went down to have dinner with her too.

Money doesn’t equate to happiness. No amount of land will keep a smile on my face. Kohen fell off the social ladder the day he picked me, and I’ve never seen him so at ease… and happy—even if he’s had to learn how to live without a maid and a cook.

This type of life with glitz and green would have turned me complacent. My claws would always be retracted, and there wouldn’t be any fight in my veins. I think that’s what differentiates me from my mother, because all I’ve ever known is darkness. One day, I hope she figures out how to break free from my grandfather’s chains and know what freedom feels like. I just won’t be the one to help her.

Taking a deep breath, I pull the mask off and tuck it into my pocket, then stuff my gun into the other. I stretch my neck from side to side, biting the inside of my cheek at the rising wave of anxiety. It’s now or never.

The floorboards don’t make a sound as I pad along the rug, slipping into his office before I get the chance to hesitate or tip him off. Neutral-toned cushions line the window seat, and various awards and sporting memorabilia decorate the white walls of his office. The place has a modern touch with the white leather couch against the wall, and the big glass table that faces the middle of the room, contrasted against the soft Persian rug beneath my boots. Paperwork, ledgers, and various journals are scattered around his desk and on the floor. There’s no color here, just a series of whites and grays. It’s as bleak as he is.

My grandfather doesn’t notice me at first. He looks so human like this; sitting at his desk in his vintage brown dressing gown, with his face shoved into both hands as if exhaustion has made a home in his bones. It’s surreal seeing him in the flesh with his guard down. Growing up, I’d usually see pictures of him online, and he always looked as foreboding as he does in person. But right now, he looks like he’s just a man.

An empty man. Cold, ruthless, and undeniably human.

This is the moment I’ve been looking forward to for the past six months. Not only six months, for all my life. Now that I’m here, I don’t know how I should feel. There’s a glimmer of anticipation for my impending liberation, but beyond that and the anxiety… I’m not sure. My hatred for my family has driven me for the past few months, and it’ll drive me for years to come.

Once my grandfather is gone, there will no longer be a physical manifestation to direct my anger; rather it will evolve. I’ll tear him down out of anger, and prosper out of spite. I’ll make sure he’ll turn in his grave and carry his regrets on his shoulders as he descends into the fiery pits.

Most of all, I want to move on. Get this shit over with because I’ve already spent a lifetime suffering under my grandfather’s thumb, and he doesn’t deserve another second of it. For months now, I’ve been looking over my shoulder, waiting for the moment he turns up and drags me into his version of purgatory.

I’ve never felt powerful in front of him, but right now, for the first time in my life, I do. I have things that make me happy. I have consistency, emotional connection, and all the physical necessities. He can’t control me anymore.

My heart pounds as I breathe in the scent of sandalwood, feeling cold sweat bead between my shoulder blades. The grandfather clock ticks in the corridor, counting down the seconds until the man before me meets his maker.

He controlled me. Tormented me. Manipulated me. Abused me. When he reaches death’s door tonight, he can tell them that he created the weapon that caused his own death. After all, I’m the demon he made me to be.

Jonathan Whitlock Sr. pulls his hand down his face with a muffled groan. Before he can spot me, I say, “This isn’t how you should spend Thanksgiving.”

His blue eyes snap up to mine. “I was waiting for you to show up,” he says as if he was expecting the trash to drift in on a breeze. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You—”

“Let me guess,” he interjects, and I curl my hands into weak fists. My nose twitches as the smell of gasoline hits my nostrils. “You want a couple thousand dollars to get you on your feet, and this will be the last time you ask for money. Then you’ll come crawling back in a few months because it all disappeared up your nose. Just like your mother.”

My mouth dries, lighting a fire within me. “How is she?”

Jonathan straightens. “Your Houdini of a mother escaped rehab again.”

Ah. So that’s where she was. Was the plan to send me there too? To make me a prisoner? Part of me doesn’t want to know the answer. “Why do you do it?”

“Are you incapable of asking a complete question?” he asks flatly.

“Why the fuck did you send us away to that house?” I growl, stepping forward as a wave of anger crashes through me. “If you wanted to protect your reputation, you would have sent Mom to rehab to begin with and took me in—or even sent me into the foster system.”

“So you can continue tainting my bloodline?” He scoffs, arching a patronizing brow.

“My mother—”

“Is too old to have any more children—not that she could after the complications she had because of you. I thought letting her pretend to be a mother would give her some fake sense of purpose. I suppose I was wrong.”

What kind of fucking support did he give her? Did he expect her to suffer through a pregnancy, have birthing complications, then miraculously get rid of the urge to hit up her veins?

I press my gloved thumbs into my temples in an attempt to comprehend how ridiculous his thought process is. “Let me get this straight. You made my life hell, and you plan on locking me up, all so I don’t spawn another Whitlock?” Rage crawls up my throat, shredding the skin into fiery ribbons with each word that passes my lips.

“Not just another Whitlock. Another you.” The head of the Whitlock empire sneers down at me as if I just shit on his expensive fucking rug, and I’m tempted to rip it up just to wipe the look from his face. “You’re so daft, Marie. Perhaps delusional is a better word. It perfectly describes all the outbursts you’ve had since you were a child. It landed you at Seraphic Hills, after all.”

I jump forward, whipping the butt of the gun across his face. He hisses as blood gushes from his busted nose. The sight of it soothes the sadistic beast clawing at my skin. His eyes widen as spots the weapon, then they squeeze shut when I punch him in the gut.

“My name is fucking Blaze.” Venom drips from my tongue, raw and agonizing. “You think I need fixing. You think I’m crazy. You think I’m fucked in the head. Maybe you’re the problem.”

Even though he’s wheezing for breath, he rolls his eyes as if I’m just being dramatic. “You were always this way.”

“Those words would mean something if you were ever around.” He flinches when I wave the gun at him. “But if you want crazy, Grandpa?” I chuckle humorlessly to myself. “I can be crazy, as long as you remember you made me this way.”

I have no intention of putting a bullet between his eyes. No. Back in the day, doctors would shove patients into near-boiling water, then straight into ice. Some believed the first would suffice.

Tonight, I’m going to drop him in his precious indoor swimming pool and pull the cover over him so he knows how I felt.

Tonight, he’ll drown in the water while the manor goes up in flames.

“Put the gun down, Marie.” His voice comes out sharp and stern as he grips the arms of his ornate wooden chair, ignoring the blood dripping from his nose.

“My name is Blaze!”

My fist descends on him again, but he doesn’t block it in time, and he continues as if didn’t almost topple over the seat from the force of the blow. “Don’t blame your lack of drive on me. I gave you every opportunity you needed to succeed, and you squandered it. Private school education. Additional tutoring. Extracurricular activities. Your failures are no fault of mine.”

Red spots dance in my vision, growing darker with each word he says. The butt of the weapon slams against his cheek, and he falls onto the floor. I kick him in the gut and relish in the sound of his groans as the sight of crimson pooling on his cheek.

The gun clatters on the table, sending paperwork flying onto the ground and freeing my hands. I yank him forward by his collar. “You made me this way. You left me, kicked me aside like I was nothing more than a problem you were trying to get rid of. I never had the chance to be anything but the way I am.”

He laughs. Laughs. I have him by his collar, and he laughs. “Had you shown any level of success throughout your life, I would have deemed you worthy of this family and took you in. But all you’ve managed to do is successfully prove that you are just as incompetent as your mother.”

“Have you considered that you’re the reason she’s using?” I spit out, shaking him before punching his jaw. The fact he isn’t fighting back is only pissing me off more.

“Yes. I spoiled her.” Jonathan’s lips curl in disdain as he recalls the memory. “I gave her all the money she ever asked for. Made it so she didn’t have to lift a finger or work a day in her life. Look what happened. Purposeless. Worthless. Useless.” He leans into my hold and stares up at me in plain mockery. “You have your mother’s eyes, Marie.”

My fists shake with the white-knuckled grip I have on him, and every muscle in my body strains with the need to make him more disfigured than McGill was when he died.

Deep breaths, I imagine Kohen saying to me.

Emotions leave room for error, I remind myself. Jonathan is baiting me, and he’s winning. He knows how to push each and every single one of my buttons. But I know one of his.

Fire burns through my veins, refusing to be doused by any reminder of the cards in my hand. Still, I pry my fingers from him and take a step back, away from him and the desk. I’m winning, I tell myself. Jonathan Whitlock Sr. will die tonight, and I will be the one who kills him.

I fold my hands behind my back to keep from wringing his neck. “It’s a pity what happened to Osman Pharmaceuticals, losing their technology and research.” I whistle and cock my head to the side as he climbs back onto the chair. “That must have cost their investors a pretty penny. I do hope you weren’t helping them out.”

Jonathan’s mouth parts as realization dawns on his paling face. “You?” He scoffs. “You couldn’t have possibly done it.”

“You’re right. I’m too stupid. I couldn’t possibly have made several copies of a certain hard drive, then mailed it out to each major pharmaceutical company and news outlet in the world. No, no.” I shake my head and pout. “I’m too much of a nothing to do anything like that.” I tap my temple. “Like you said, the drugs turned my brain to rot.

”

In a move that sends dark ripples through my bones, he gives me a disbelieving huff and raises his chin. “Don’t flatter yourself, Marie. There is no universe where you could have achieved something like that. You lack intelligence.”

My fingers tremble behind my back. He’s fucking right, but I’ve made my peace with it. Still, I hate that my own grandfather doesn’t think I could be capable of anything. “I’m not. But Kohen is. You know Kohen Osman, right?”

“How dare you, you ungrateful little brat.” He slaps the arm of his chair as he rises to his feet. “After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me?”

“You’ve done nothing for me.” I sneer.

“Nothing?” He raises a brow, stormy eyes burning into mine. “What do you think would have happened if I left you with nothing but your mother and waste-of-space father?”

“I’d end up exactly like my mother if I was raised by the likes of you. But nobody fucking raised me, and now you’re in the center of the public eye for your failed investments. And let’s not forget about the tax the IRS found that you forgot to pay.”

I want to see him riled up. I want to see him angry beyond measure. I want him to choke on the rage I’ve been bottling since I was old enough to walk. I want all these things, but mainly, I want him wiped from this earth.

“But I’m not done,” I say, low and unbidden. Our happy little reunion is over. The corner of his eye twitches as they narrow on me. “You’re going to die tonight.”

Five words. That’s all it takes for the bloodlust to rewind its way around my heart and braid into my veins. It pushes aside the blurry-eyed fury and hones my emotion into a single-minded weapon. For the first time tonight, actual fear twists his features, and he becomes the prey that he is.

Until he doesn’t. Until it comes crashing down, and all my fears come alive.

We glance at the table simultaneously, and I realize my first mistake. I didn’t keep my emotions in check.

The second…?

My grandfather leaps for the gun faster than I can. The weapon makes it into his hand just as Kohen steps into the room.

The third mistake comes from a bloodcurdling bang following one word.

One cry as Kohen lunges across the room.

“Blaze!”

Then he drops onto the floor, and his head rolls to the side.