Chapter Text
The dormitory at Fiore’s Catholic Boarding School reeked of mildew and lavender—an unholy marriage of the nuns’ mandatory air fresheners and the leaky window in the corner that never quite sealed, even in the dead of winter.
Fiore sat cross-legged on her bed, her yellow cardigan crumpled and streaked with faint spray-paint stains (neon green, her favorite) from a morning spent vandalizing the school’s east wall. She’d drawn a giant middle finger surrounded by the words “FATHER IGNATIUS SUCKS” in block letters, and Sister Bianca had chased her through three hallways with a wooden ruler, screaming about “blasphemy” and “respect for holy grounds.” Fiore had dodged every swing, of course—she’d spent years perfecting the art of outrunning nuns—but the adrenaline had faded hours ago, leaving behind a hollow, restless anger that bubbled in her chest like boiling oil.
The room was quiet—too quiet. Fiore had no roommate since she was six; the last girl assigned to share with her had whined and begged the principal to move after Fiore flooded the bathroom by clogging the toilet with Bible pages (she’d been bored, and the nuns’ lectures on “purity” had made her want to scream). Now, the only sounds were the distant toll of the chapel bell (ringing for Vespers, she guessed) and the hum of the radiator, which sputtered like it was on its last legs. Fiore’s fingers tapped a rapid, anxious rhythm on her phone—an old, beat-up Android with a cracked screen that Alec had given her after hers (the one that she bought by her saved up 'allowance' through ransoming school visitors and a few dollars from pickpocketing a few months ago) got confiscated. Alec had texted her ten minutes ago:
Hey, Spencer’s gonna help you with stats at the library, thought you're smart enough to get a head start. You in? I brought your favorite chocolate chip cookies.
She’d read it, stared at the screen for a minute, then locked the phone and tossed it onto her pillow. Cookies be damned. Right now, she was too busy replaying Father Ignatius’s stupid “sin calculation” in her head, the numbers burning like acid.
98.2% wrath. 95.3% greed. 92.7% pride. 94.8% envy. 82.1% gluttony. 49.5% sloth. 0% lust (the only number she’d been glad to see, honestly—whatever “lust” was, it sounded weird and boring). She wasn’t a sinner. She was just angry. Angry that her parents had dropped her off at this godforsaken school when she was six and never came back. Angry that the nuns treated her like a demon spawn because she talked back and didn’t pretend to be a perfect little saint. Angry that Alec was the only person who ever seemed to care about her, and even he couldn’t fix the empty feeling in her chest.
She’d spent the afternoon stomping on the principal’s prized daffodils (as always), squishing the petals to a pulp under her sneaker’s sole (they’d been blooming for exactly three days, and the principal had bragged about them in assembly), kicking her room’s wall until her toes ached (she’d left a small dent near the baseboard), and scribbling profanities in the margin of her Bible (her favorite: “THOU SHALT NOT BE A BITCH” next to the Ten Commandments). She’d eaten the last of her chocolate bar (Alec’s cookies would have to wait) and even flipped off the statue of Mary on the windowsill (the nuns had given it to her as a “gift” to “guide her toward goodness,” but it just stared at her with that serene smile that made Fiore want to throw it out the window).
Nothing worked. The anger was still there—hot, sharp, and impossible to ignore—like a fire that refused to be extinguished.
Fiore stood up, pacing the small space between her bed and the dresser. Her dark teal cargo shorts rustled as she moved, the pockets stuffed with random junk: a half-eaten lollipop, a pack of gum she’d stolen from the cafeteria, a small knife she’d found on the street when doing community service when she was seven (she carried it for “protection,” though she’d never used it). The laces on her light yellow sneakers were scuffed at the toes—she’d run from the janitor that morning after he caught her spray-painting the wall—and they tapped a rapid beat on the floor. She stopped in front of the mirror above her dresser, and she tied her laces before standing up, staring at her reflection. Her brown hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, strands falling out to frame her face. Her hazel eyes were sharp, almost wild, and her cheeks were still flushed from her earlier outburst. She looked like a mess. Like a demon. Like Father Ignatius had said.
“Fuck him,” she muttered, flipping off her reflection. “Fuck all of them.”
She grabbed her phone again, unlocking it to text Alec.
Sorry, can’t make it. Not in the mood.
But she deleted the message before sending it. Alec would worry. He always did. He’d show up at her dorm with cookies, some paper assignments and a math textbook, and he’d sit with her until she calmed down, never judging her for her anger, never telling her to “repent” or “be good.” He’d just listen. And that’s what scared her—letting him see how broken she was. Letting him know that sometimes, the anger got so bad she wanted to scream until her throat bleed.
Fiore tossed the phone back on the bed, her hands balling into fists. She felt like she was going to explode. Like the walls were closing in on her. Like she needed to break something, to run, to do anything to make the anger stop. She walked to the leaky window, yanking it open. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of rain and pine from the woods beyond the school. She leaned out, looking up at the gray sky.
It was going to rain soon—thunderstorms, the weather forecast had said. Fiore hated thunderstorms when she was little, scared of how the lightning flash and the thunder boomed as huge raindrops banged on the window like a crazed woodpecker, but now she somehow loved them. The way the sky turned black, the way the thunder boomed so loud it shook the windows, the way the rain poured down like it was washing the world clean. It made her feel small, but in a good way—like her problems weren’t so big compared to the power of the storm.
She stayed there for a minute, breathing in the cold air, before slamming the window shut. The anger was still there, but it had dulled a little.
......
Then it happened.
A red flash—bright, searing, like someone had lit a match in her face—filled the room. Fiore yelped, throwing her hands up to shield her eyes.
The air crackled, and the radiator sputtered to a stop. When she lowered her hands, the room was gone.......
Gone was the mildew smell, the lavender air freshener, the chipped paint. In their place was cold stone under her feet, the acrid stench of smoke, and a sky the color of emeralds.......