The Quiet Burn Novels & Stories

The world after The Burning was quiet. Too quiet. No more cars rumbling down streets, no more planes humming overhead. No more constant hum of humanity. Just ash and silence. I moved through the ruins of a small town, my feet crunching over broken glass and charred debris. The once vibrant town was now just a skeleton, its buildings blackened and hollowed out, like they’d been picked clean by vultures. The air was thick with the smell of burnt wood and decay, and every breath tasted like dust.

That shadow in my chest. The part of me that still wonders why he didn’t choose me. The part that still remembers loving him. I close my eyes. And I whisper again. "You will burn." Because he has to. Because I didn’t survive just to stay quiet. And this time, I get to decide who burns.

The silence of The Crossroads clinic shattered under the weight of Silas’s scream. Leo held him down, not restraining, but anchoring, as the terror of the phantom purple fire consumed him. Petrova moved swiftly, another sedative needle finding its mark. Silas’s arching body went slack, the desperate cries subsiding into whimpers, then silence, broken only by his ragged, too-fast breathing. Leo brushed sweat-soaked hair from Silas’s forehead, his own heart hammering against his ribs. *"Find the weak... make them burn from the inside..."* Thorne’s promise, seared into Silas’s broken mind, was a countdown ticking in Leo’s skull.

He wasn’t fighting for me. He was fighting because of me. Because whatever this was between us — love, curse, obsession — it didn’t save people. It burned them. And maybe I was next. ⸻ -MALRIK KAINE- There’s a kind of silence that only comes after too much noise. Gunfire, metal, bones — they all blend into one sound after a while. And after that, there’s only breathing. Theirs. Then mine. I don’t remember who fired first. It didn’t matter.

“The version of myself I thought I was.” “And the one you are becoming,” Evelyn added. He took her hand. “That one scares me less.” They stopped beneath a streetlight, the glow soft against the pavement. “The cost of silence,” Evelyn said quietly, “is that it asks everyone else to pay.” Alexander nodded. “Not anymore.” Above them, the city lights stretched on, unaware of the reckoning unfolding within its towers. But for the first time, the legacy of fire felt exposed, stripped of justification. Silence had protected the system. Now it would be dismantled. And Alexander Drake had chosen to stand in the open while it burned away.

"Remember to be quiet, my pretty whore." He keeps that arm there, holding me down, making sure I have no choice but to take it when he slides out of me and slams back in. I have to clench my lips between my teeth to keep from screaming out. He drives into me, and even though I'm doing my best to be quiet, the sounds of our bodies meeting aren't. The frantic slap will give us away if anyone's listening, but I can't find it in me to truly care as his every thrust pushes me closer and closer to giving me the bliss I haven't felt since the last time he was between my thighs.

Instead, it was to honor my father's legacy. Before long, the Moretti family returned to its former glory. We became the strongest force in the underworld, and I was known as the coldest, most untouchable woman. The old me died in that fire, yet from its ashes, I rose anew. What the flames didn't consume was my heart. It still burned, but it would ache for no one ever again.

The silen‌ce hurts more t‌han t‌h‍e burn‌s. I pr⁠ess my f⁠orehe⁠ad against the ground, t‍ears cutt‌ing through s‍oot on my cheeks. Th‌e hea⁠t licks my skin‌, cr‌uel and real. “You promised,” I whisper. “You said you’d find me.”⁠ The smoke swirls like i‌t’s listening, and for a second—just a‍ sec‌ond—‌I i⁠magine hearing him whisper back.

The clinic always felt too quiet in the mornings, as if silence seeped down from the ceiling tiles and settled over everything. Lola Smith could hear the hum of the lights, the slow whir of the automatic doors, even the soft scrape of her own shoes across the polished floor. She didn’t mind the quiet, not really. But on certain days, when her thoughts were too loud, she wished for more noise—anything to drown out the feeling that her life was idling in neutral.

Alfred mistook my silence for embarrassment and pitifully offered me a glass of red wine. "Nelson, you've got to get out more. Stop obsessing over women all the time. Check this out. This bottle's on the house. Thirty thousand dollars a pop, reserved only for the big shots like us. This one bottle could easily pay your rent for the next few years. Here, try some," he said, handing me a glass.