The fires didn't end the world. They just ended the illusion that it could be saved.

Whole cities fell in days. Flames swallowed streets, homes, and lives with nothing more than a hiss and a crackle. In the ashes, someone had to stay behind - to contain it, clean it, pretend it could be controlled.

We told ourselves the world still needed saving. That we could rebuild something from the ruins. But the fires weren't the real enemy.

It was the fear. The doubt. The slow, grinding realization that survival doesn't mean anything when there's nothing left worth surviving for.

Every day, the lines between right and wrong blur a little more. Orders get followed because it's easier than asking questions. We put out the flames, erase the evidence, and move on - until one day, there's nothing left to move toward.

In a world built on ash and silence, every step forward feels like sinking deeper into the ruins.

We fight to keep going.

We fight because we remember.

We fight to try and forget.

And somewhere out there, the fires are still burning.