The world didn't end in fire. It ended in silence.
Dante Voss had always thought, if it came to it, his world would be consumed in a blaze—an inferno so hot it would sear itself into memory, leaving nothing but ash in its wake. But the night everything was taken from him, there were no flames. Just the cold, merciless hush of death.
He could still hear the muted sounds of their breathing, his mother humming softly as she stirred a pot on the stove, the creak of his father's chair as he leaned back, exhausted from another long shift. His younger brother, Elias, sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through the pages of a comic book, eyes wide with wonder. They had been alive. They had been happy.
And then, in the space of a single breath, they were gone.
The heroes came in like a storm—golden, righteous, untouchable. They weren't supposed to be the villains. They weren't supposed to be the ones who tore a family apart. But they had been hunting a man that night, a villain whose name Dante didn't even know, and they had chased him into the wrong neighborhood. Into the wrong home.
Collateral damage. That's what the news called it. Tragic. Unavoidable. Regrettable.
But Dante didn't remember it as a tragedy. He remembered it as murder.
They had set the building ablaze, reducing everything inside to blackened remains. He had woken up to smoke clogging his throat, fire licking at his skin, his mother's hand already limp in his own. He had tried to move, tried to reach for Elias, for his father, but all he found was ruin.
And then the heat had come, not from the fire consuming his home, but from inside him. Something raw and primal had ignited in his bones, twisting through his veins, pulling him apart and reforging him into something else. The pain was unbearable. It should have killed him.
But instead, he became it.
When he emerged from the wreckage, his skin had been untouched by the fire, his body wreathed in smoke. His hands burned, flames crackling between his fingers, but he felt no pain. Only rage.
That was the night Dante Voss died. That was the night Phantom Flame was born.
Years later, he still felt the embers of that night smoldering in his chest. The world had moved on, the heroes had continued their crusades, and no one spoke of the lives they had taken in the name of justice.
But Dante hadn't forgotten.
He stood on the rooftop of an abandoned high-rise, the city sprawled beneath him like a breathing organism, its lights flickering against the night. The air was thick with the stench of industry, the distant murmur of sirens and late-night revelers filling the silence.
Somewhere below, a man was about to die.
Dante had been tracking him for weeks—one of the many corrupt officials who lined their pockets while pretending to serve the people. The kind of man who smiled for cameras while making backroom deals with villains worse than him. Dante didn't consider himself a hero—not by any means—but he knew monsters when he saw them.
And he knew how to burn them out.
He stepped forward, the wind tugging at the edges of his coat, his fingers twitching at his sides. Smoke curled from his skin, coiling around him like a living thing. Below, the man walked to his waiting car, bodyguards flanking him on either side. It wouldn't matter. Dante had learned a long time ago that there were very few defenses against someone who could become smoke, who could slip through cracks and shadows unseen.
He inhaled, felt the familiar heat build in his lungs, and then—
"Voss."
The voice was smooth, amused, and far too familiar. Dante clenched his jaw.
Lucian Moreau—better known as Lux, the underworld's most well-informed parasite—leaned against the rooftop's railing, watching him with a knowing smirk. His silver hair gleamed under the city lights, his expensive suit pristine as ever. He didn't belong in a place like this, yet somehow, he was always exactly where he needed to be.
Dante exhaled slowly, the flames in his hands dimming but not disappearing. "Lux," he said, voice rough. "Unless you have something useful to say, get lost."
Lux raised an eyebrow. "Now, now. Is that any way to speak to a friend?"
"We're not friends."
"Associates, then." Lux sighed dramatically, pushing off the railing and strolling closer. "You're about to make quite the mess down there, and while I do enjoy a bit of chaos, I'd be remiss if I didn't offer you some… alternative options."
Dante narrowed his eyes. "Get to the point."
Lux smiled. It was the kind of smile that belonged to someone who had never once lost a game of chess. "Your target—he's useful to me. And before you set him alight like a particularly flammable scarecrow, I'd like to propose a trade."
Dante let the fire flare between his fingers, watching the way Lux's gaze flicked to the glow. Good. He might be playing games, but even Lux wasn't stupid enough to forget what Dante was. "I don't trade," he said.
"No," Lux agreed. "You destroy. But tell me, Voss—how much closer are you to what you really want?"
The question slithered under Dante's skin, coiling tight around the part of him that still burned with the need for vengeance.
Lux took his silence as an invitation to continue. "I have names. Faces. People who were there that night. The ones who walked away with clean hands while your family turned to ash." His voice dropped lower. "I can give them to you."
Dante stilled.
The wind howled between the buildings, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city. Below, his target was getting into his car, unaware of how close he had come to burning.
He looked at Lux, at the ever-present smirk and the eyes that missed nothing. He had no doubt the bastard was telling the truth. Lux never played a losing hand.
Dante's jaw tightened. He hated deals. Hated being beholden to anyone. But if Lux had what he claimed…
The fire in Dante's palm flickered, then died.
Lux's smirk widened. "A wise decision."
Dante stepped closer, his voice low, edged with warning. "If you're lying to me—"
"I wouldn't dream of it." Lux placed a hand over his heart, mocking sincerity. "Now, let's talk terms."
Dante looked away, down at the city that had long since turned its back on him.
His vengeance had waited this long. It could wait a little longer.
For now.