They told her
a Siren should know
which song to sing.
Wildfire laughed
and struck the match.
She was never made
for neat little boxes,
polished halos,
or someone else’s definition
of good.
She is the misfit—
the flame that refuses
to burn in formation,
the smoke slipping beneath
every locked door,
the warning nobody hears
until the whole damn room
is glowing.
She doesn’t fight
because someone handed her
a cape
and called her a hero.
She fights
because she remembers.
Because Pharma left scars
beneath her skin
that no one else can see.
Because some debts
aren’t paid in money.
Some debts
are paid in fire.
So let the other heroes
follow the map.
Wildfire will carve
her own road
through the ashes.
She has her own rules.
Her own reasons.
Her own names
written quietly
on the matchbook.
And when the Sirens call,
she’ll answer—
not because
she wants to save the world,
but because somewhere
inside that world
is a score
she intends
to settle.
And Wildfire
has never been afraid
to burn
her way there.
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