Chapter 1: Cyrus

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Cyrus stalked back to his apartment his hand in his pocket, stroking over the body of the lighter the whole way. He knew that he was right. There was no fluid left in it. The thing had to be sixty years old at least, and it was too light besides.

But the promise of fire was enough for him to want to keep holding on. It still felt too hot in his hands, just on the edge of pleasant warmth and painful burn, but that had to be his imagination.

He dropped his jacket to the ground as soon as he entered the apartment, kicked off his combat boots and went into the bathroom. The floors were tile there.

Holding the lighter up where he could see it in the mirror, he put his thumb against the striker, and he flicked ...