The room was warm.
Too warm.
A command center designed for coordination and peacekeeping now hummed under emergency backup power. Screens flickered. Lights dimmed. The air was thick—not with heat, but with history.
Winston sat at the central table, eyes fixed on the man across from him.
Gérard.
Not a ghost. Not a clone.
Flesh. Scarred. Breathing.
Alive.
Beside him stood Amélie, arms crossed tightly against her chest, gaze lowered—not cold, but distant. Human, almost.
Tracer paced the far side of the room, a restless blur of orange and blue. But even her energy seemed stifled—like time itself was hesitant.
No one spoke for a long while.
Then finally:
"Well," Tracer said, trying to force a grin. "Look who finally made it back from the grave."
She turned, the smile faltering.
"You alright, Pyro?"
Gérard gave a faint, tired smirk.
"That name doesn't fit anymore."
"You'll always be Pyro to me," she said, but her voice cracked a little.
Winston leaned forward, his hands folded beneath his chin. He studied Gérard—not like a scientist, but like a friend trying to make sense of a nightmare.
"You've changed," he said.
"I had to," Gérard replied. "We all did."
The screen behind them showed old footage—Overwatch days. Training yard clips. Gérard in full combat gear, flames flickering from his gloves. Angela laughing off-screen. Jay's influence humming in every gesture, every blast of controlled fire.
That was then.
This was now.
Winston broke the silence again.
"Tell us. What happened to you?"
Gérard exhaled slowly.
"You remember the fire. The power that made me Pyro."
They all nodded.
"That wasn't mine."
"It never was."
A beat of silence.
Then: "It was him."
"Jay."
Tracer's expression dropped.
"Wait—Jay? The demon thing? I thought that was just some kind of fusion—"
"It was," Gérard interrupted. "But there were lines. Boundaries. He burned so I could save lives. Angela kept him in check. She… taught him to feel."
He looked down, voice tightening.
"She was the only thing he loved."
Amélie finally spoke. Her voice cut like frost:
"And now she's dead."
No one moved.
Not even Tracer.
The room held its breath.
Gérard's eyes shimmered.
"When she died, he didn't lose control."
"He lost purpose."
"He didn't scream."
"He burned."
"And with that, the seal shattered."
Winston turned toward the screen.
He pulled up Jay's archived bio.
The smiling man in the image. Charcoal uniform. Fire behind his eyes, but warmth behind his smile.
Angela stood beside him. Their arms looped.
Tracer stared at the image like it was a window to a better world.
"He was one of the best of us…" she whispered.
"He was the best of me," Gérard said softly.
"But now… now he's just the fire."
Amélie stepped forward.
Her expression was unreadable.
"This isn't grief anymore. It's something worse. Something ancient."
"Jay's fire doesn't want justice."
"It wants reflection."
"He wants the world to feel what he felt."
Winston's brow furrowed.
"What kind of threat are we talking about?"
Amélie didn't blink.
"He melted a pocket dimension."
"He broke the Abyss trying to die."
"And when Hell failed to hold him…"
She met Winston's gaze dead-on.
"He came back."
A long pause.
Then Gérard stood.
"I was given this body to warn you. But not by fate. Not by magic. By fire. Jay is no longer inside me."
He placed a hand to his chest.
"He is outside."
"And he's free."
Winston turned to the room.
His voice was quiet, but heavy.
"What does he want?"
Gérard didn't hesitate.
"He wants to burn everything that let her die."
Tracer sat down. Her voice small.
"So what do we do?"
Amélie's answer was a whisper.
"We remember who we were."
Gérard's?
He looked to the fire in the distance, pulsing like a second sun on the edge of reality.
"And then we find him… before he finds everyone else."