The Devouring Flames

Thick smoke clawed its way into Alena's lungs. She coughed violently until her throat felt shredded. Her eyes struggled to open. Her vision was a blur.

Fire.

Flames licked up the walls of her room. Orange and red, creeping slowly but relentlessly. Heat. She felt unbearably hot. Sweat drenched her entire body.

The fire alarm shrieked—piercing, shattering the hospital's former stillness. From the corridor came screams. Running footsteps. Panic echoing everywhere.

"FIRE! FIRE ON THE FIFTH FLOOR!"

Alena tried to move. Tried to get out of bed. But her body wouldn't respond. Her legs wouldn't budge. Her arms felt like lead. Her neck was stiff.

What had Dr. Julian injected her with?

Poison? Or a paralytic?

"No... please..."

Alena's voice emerged only as a faint whisper. No one heard. No one cared.

The fire grew larger. It consumed the curtains. Licked at the bed. The heat began searing her skin—like thousands of burning needles piercing every pore.

Tears streamed down Alena's face. Not from the smoke, but from terror. From helplessness. From the realization that this was the end.

"Mom... forgive me..." Her lips formed words that were barely audible.

The flames crawled onto the bed. The sheets began to burn. The stench of melting plastic and fabric stabbed at her nose.

Alena felt heat on her legs. Then her thighs. Her skin started to burn.

Pain. Pain. Excruciating pain.

But she couldn't scream. Her voice was gone. Her body was frozen. All that remained was agony penetrating every cell.

Alena surrendered.

Perhaps... this was the end of Alena Kensington. Burned alive, not killed by leukemia.

Outside the hospital building, black smoke billowed high into Manhattan's evening sky. Flames were visible from the fifth-floor windows—the floor where cancer patients were housed.

Tristan Kensington stood in the parking area, hands in his pockets, expression flat. Beside him, Sienna Reid gazed at the burning building with a thin smile.

"It's finally over," Sienna murmured, a sly smile playing on her lips.

Tristan replied casually, as if discussing the weather.

"Yes. That woman is finally dead."

Sienna wrapped herself around Tristan's arm affectionately. "I'm so tired of pretending in front of Alena."

"Me too," Tristan agreed, kissing Sienna's forehead. "The insurance will pay out in two days. Five million dollars. Enough to start fresh."

They both smiled broadly. No regret. No guilt. Only satisfaction.

The wail of fire truck sirens began in the distance. Tristan and Sienna turned and walked toward the car.

"We should leave now, before the police start asking questions," Tristan said, opening the car door.

"Wait—" Sienna glanced back at the burning building. "Are you sure she won't survive?"

"The drug Dr. Julian gave her is a muscle relaxant. She won't be able to move. She'll burn alive."

Tristan answered with calm certainty.

Sienna nodded, satisfied. They got into the car and drove away, leaving chaos behind them.

But unbeknownst to them, behind the billowing black smoke, a man was running through the fire-ravaged corridors.

The man in the black suit burst through the door to room 512, already half-consumed by flames. His eyes narrowed against the thick smoke, but his gaze immediately locked on the figure lying on the bed.

Alena Kensington.

Her body wasn't moving. Fire had already begun licking at the bed. The skin on her hands and legs was blistering. Her face was pale, eyes closed, breathing barely perceptible.

Without hesitation, he ran closer. He lifted Alena's body—so light, almost weightless—and carried her out of the room that was nearly engulfed in flames.

Alena was barely conscious from the pain. Her head lolled against the chest of the man saving her, her breathing almost inaudible.

"Hold on..."

He whispered urgently as he ran through the fire-filled corridor.

Heat scorched his skin. Smoke choked his lungs. But he didn't stop.

He kept running, carrying Alena out of the hell designed to kill her.

At the edge of consciousness, Alena opened her eyes. She saw the face of her rescuer—the man she'd met in the elevator just hours before.

Six months later...

A television screen in a luxurious VIP hospital room cast pale blue light. A reporter's voice rang clear through the silence.

"On the six-month anniversary of the Manhattan Memorial Hospital fire tragedy, authorities have confirmed 47 casualties in what's being called the worst medical facility disaster of the year..."

On screen, photos of victims appeared one after another. Smiling faces. Faces that would never smile again.

"Alena Kensington, 29, a PR executive at a multinational firm, is listed as both a victim and the primary suspect in causing the fire. According to preliminary investigation results, Kensington was believed to be suffering from acute depression due to her late-stage leukemia. Her remains could not be identified due to severe burn injuries..."

Alena's photo appeared on screen. A beautiful face with a gentle smile—a photo taken a year before her illness struck.

"Victims' families have filed lawsuits against the hospital and the suspect's family for negligence and suspected arson. Diana Vale, the suspect's mother, has lost all her assets paying compensation to victims' families..."

In the corner of the room, a thin body lay on an advanced medical bed. A heart monitor beeped softly. An IV was inserted in her arm. A breathing apparatus covered a face wrapped in bandages.

A young nurse in white uniform sat beside the bed, monitoring vital signs on a tablet in her hands. Occasionally her eyes glanced at the television screen before returning to the tablet.

The news continued.

"Tristan Kensington, Alena Kensington's husband, has received the five-million-dollar life insurance payout. Mr. Kensington stated that the funds will be used to establish a mental health foundation in his late wife's name..."

The nurse let out a long sigh, shaking her head slowly. "Hypocrite," she muttered quietly.

Suddenly, the heart monitor beeped slightly faster.

The nurse looked over. Her eyes widened.

The patient's fingers on the bed... were moving.

Slowly. Trembling. As if trying to reach for something.

"Oh my God—"

The nurse leaped from her chair in panic, nearly dropping her tablet. She approached the bed, staring intently at the bandaged face.

The patient's eyelids moved. Slowly. Then... opened.

A pair of dark brown eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. Her breathing came in gasps through the oxygen mask.

"Miss! Miss, can you hear me?!"

The nurse's voice trembled, trying to stay calm despite her racing heart.

The patient didn't answer. Just stared blankly.

"Wait here, Miss! I'll get the doctor now!" she cried, then ran out of the room, leaving the door open.

The sound of running footsteps echoed in the corridor.

Minutes later, a middle-aged female doctor with thick glasses rushed into the room. Behind her, the nurse followed with a clipboard.

"Miss Serena, can you hear me?" the doctor asked gently but clearly, leaning over the bed.

The patient frowned. Her lips moved behind the oxygen mask, trying to form words.

"Miss Serena, can you hear my voice?" the doctor repeated.

"Serena?" the patient finally spoke weakly. She looked at the people around her in confusion. "I'm not Serena. I'm... Alena."