Chapter 5: What’s this, therapy?
The Haven was a tomb of grayncrete, dawn bleeding through the boarded-up windows like a dying flame. Kael shoved Rhea's door open, hinges screaming in the silence. He strolled in—dark tee hugging his frame, a silverin flipping between his fingers. His hazel eyes too sharp for his lazy grin.
Rhea sprawled on thet, a wild mess of crimson hair streaked with ash, her charred leather jacket crumpled like a snd skin. The blue blanket was a heap at her feet, and thellar around her neck glinted—dull,ld, locking her pyrokinesis tight. She glared up at him, amber eyes smoldering with raw defiance. "What's this, therapy hour?" she snarled, voice gravelly from a night of restless fury.
Kael smirked, dragging a chair over—not too close, keeping the line professional... for now. "Call it what you want," he said, dropping into the seat, thein still dancing. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, sizing her up—clenched fists, scars twitching along her arms. "Morning, Rhea. Sleep well?"
"Fuck off," she spat, bolting upright, her wiry frame ailed spring. "You lock me in this shithole, and now we're buddies? What's your angle, asshole?"
"No angle," he said, voice low, steady—like he'd done this dance before. "Just a question. What lit the fuse? Why'd you burn it all down?"
Her laugh was a jagged blade, cutting the air. "None of your damn business. You think I'll crack 'cause you've got a chair and a pretty face?"
Kael didn't blink, didn't push. Thein froze mid-flip as he studied her—thellar choking her fire, leaving only rage to simmer. "Fair," he said, standing. "You don't talk yet. But you're here to figure out why you burn. And I'm not going anywhere." He spun thein once more, heading for the door. "Think about it, Rhea. Why're you really pissed?"
The door clicked shut, locking her in. She wled, fists slamming thet, but his words stuck—like ash clogging her throat. Who the hell did he think he was?
Next morning, Kael was back—same steady stride, same damn chair, but closer now, shrinking the gap. Rhea sat rigid, arms crossed over her jacket, boredom gnawing at her edges. The gray walls and stale air had dulled her spark overnight. She eyed the tray he set beside her—water, notepad, pen—like it was a trap.