The lights dimmed.
Not for effect—but because the air itself seemed heavier now, as if the room was holding its breath.
Winston stepped forward, pulling up the last surviving drone footage from a mission team that never returned.
The screen flickered.
Then—
White fire.
No explosion. No warning. Just a bloom of impossible heat that devoured the camera in a single, silent frame. Static followed. For a moment, no one moved.
Then the next clip began.
Jay stood alone in a crater of melted steel.
The ground beneath him—once reinforced concrete—was glass.
Corpses lay half-vaporized.
Flame clung to him not like armor, but like worship.
A shape caught between skeletal demon and man, flickering in and out with every pulse of burning emotion.
His eyes glowed white.
Tracer's whisper broke the silence.
"Bloody hell…"
Winston fast-forwarded.
Another clip.
Jay raised one arm—calmly—and a hovering Overwatch transport in the distance disintegrated midair.
There was no explosion.
Just… unmaking.
The crew didn't scream.
They didn't have time.
Next clip.
Jay walking through the remains of a Talon stronghold.
Flames licked at his shoulders like disciples.
The walls hadn't burned.
They had ceased to exist.
No screams.
No sound.
Just silence and ash.
He wasn't roaring.
He wasn't laughing.
He wasn't even angry.
He was resolved.
Winston shut off the screen.
The lights came back.
But the heaviness in the room remained.
"He's not chasing anyone," Winston said. "He's not searching. He's just… burning. Like the world offends him by existing."
Gérard stood silent, arms crossed, his eyes distant.
Amélie paced behind him—slower now. Less like a predator, more like a soldier waiting for bad orders.
"He doesn't use power," Gérard finally said. "He is the power now."
"And it's still growing."
Winston turned toward him.
"You carried him for years. How did you fight it?"
Gérard didn't answer right away. His jaw flexed. Then he looked at Amélie.
"I didn't fight him."
"I endured him."
"Because she was still alive."
He glanced away.
"Jay doesn't have that anymore."
No one spoke.
Not even Tracer.
Then—Winston leaned against the table, thinking aloud.
"We can't face him head-on. He's not a combatant anymore. He's a… rupture. A living breach."
"We need someone who understands fire."
"Not how to extinguish it—how to survive it."
There was a long silence.
Then Amélie stopped pacing.
"There are two."
Winston blinked.
"You're not serious."
Gérard nodded.
"I am."
Tracer frowned.
"Who?"
Amélie turned to her.
"The Shimadas."
"They fought beside him when he was still red flame. Before Angela. Before he lost his tether."
Gérard added, voice quiet but certain:
"They knew him when his fire was love, not hate."
Winston walked back to the console.
He tapped in the comms manually—direct uplink to the Shambali mountain network.
Tracer watched, arms folded, finally still.
The message on screen assembled line by line:
Priority-One Transmission
Sector: Shambali Region
Classification: Omega Threat
Target: Codename Pyro (Jay)
Status: Unbound — Transdimensional Fire Entity
Request: Immediate Assistance
Recipients: Shimada Genji. Shimada Hanzo.
Winston hit send.
The signal left like a prayer.
He turned back to the others.
"If they answer… we'll have our best shot."
Gérard nodded.
"If they don't… he won't stop at cities. He'll burn meaning. Memory. Love."
Amélie whispered:
"He already has."