The girl stands frozen a few feet away, her wide eyes reflecting the flickering glow of the flames consuming the man in the chair. She looks young—maybe in her late teens—with dark hair falling loosely over her shoulders, her face pale despite the firelight casting an eerie orange hue across her skin. Her lips are slightly parted, breath shallow, as if caught between the instinct to scream and the inability to make a sound. The man—Superman—or what was once him, sits motionless in the chair, his broad shoulders slumped, the familiar emblem on his chest curling and blackening under the relentless heat. His flesh crackles, splitting open like overcooked meat, revealing glimpses of the indestructible man beneath, now rendered helpless. Smoke billows upward, thick and choking, filling the space with the acrid scent of burning fabric and something far worse. The heat radiates outward, making the girl’s skin prickle, but she doesn’t move. She just watches, her fingers twitching at her sides, uncertain whether she’s witnessing the impossible or something she somehow always knew could happen.
