I kept my eyes fixed on the table in front of me when the judge's robe brushed the edge of my vision, that slow sweep of dark fabric that seemed to thicken the air rather than move through it. The courtroom was colder than the transport van had been, colder than the solitary cell where morning bled into madness. It felt like a kind of winter built from stone and authority, settling into my skin, finding every bruise and reminder of the last weeks and pressing against them as if to test their tenderness.
Logan shifted beside me, the soft scrape of his chair sounding almost fragile compared to the murmured steps around us. Even without looking at him, I could feel the tension he carried in the lines of his breath. He kept his forearms on the table, hands clasped in front of him, steadying himself the way he had tried to steady me earlier. I stayed rigid, fingers curled under the edge of my seat so I wouldn't shake visibly.
I didn't want them to see how much of me trembled.
"Mr. Hollands," the judge said, voice firm, resonant. "You will rise."
Logan stood first. I followed him, legs unsteady, the chain at my ankles whispering along the floor. It wasn't loud, but I felt it reverberate through me, a reminder that whatever I used to be—performer, son, sinner, something caught between all three—now the system saw only this: a threat bound for trial.
The judge looked at me the way people study something unexpected on the shoreline, washed up by a storm they didn't feel coming. Age around his eyes, authority in the set of his shoulders. He had no idea of the things moving beneath the surface of this case. No idea of the pact. No idea that the boy in the front row didn't blink often enough because something ancient and merciless peered out of his skull.
He saw me as a defendant. Nothing more.
"Mr. Hollands," he continued, "this is the preliminary hearing for the charges filed against you. You have been informed of them. Do you understand the nature of today's proceedings?"
My voice came out thin. "Yes, Your Honor."
A ripple of quiet. The prosecutor stood up, adjusting her suit jacket with a sharp pull. She carried papers that made a soft flutter as she straightened them, their corners catching the light like blades. She had the kind of face built for courtroom victories—composed, unshakable, satisfied with her own precision.
"This case," she began, "concerns the events of September eighth. The suspect—Mr. Hugo Hollands—will answer to charges including arson, manslaughter, attempted murder…" Her tone didn't rise or fall; it simply moved forward, a current dragging everything with it.
Someone coughed behind me. Someone else shifted their shoes on the polished floor. It all mixed into a low murmur under her words. But my thoughts drifted again—to Harry. Or the thing in Harry. The room's temperature seemed to throb from that corner, a strange subtle warmth that didn't belong in a courthouse filled with autumn drafts.
And then the Witness tilted Harry's head slightly, as if acknowledging something only it understood.
My heart thudded once, hard, as if it recognized the gesture before my mind did.
Logan leaned subtly toward me. "Don't react," he whispered. "Look straight ahead."
I tried. I did. But the sensation grew—this quiet pressure, like invisible fingers grazing the inside of my chest, turning pages of memories I didn't want opened. My pulse stumbled. Sweat gathered at my hairline. I felt the mark under my skin respond with a faint stir, like a breath that wasn't mine.
Corvian… I waited for even the smallest echo from him. Anything.
Nothing answered.
The prosecutor continued reading—details, times, witness statements—but my attention splintered. I heard fragments: residential property, multiple victims, no trace of accelerant, supernatural involvement suspected.
The Sovereign Integrity Act was mentioned. The words landed like iron.
I swallowed hard. My throat felt scraped, raw.
When they called Harry to stand, the room shifted—not literally, not visibly, but the air tightened around my ribs as if the whole building leaned closer.
He rose with that unnatural stillness, shoulders squared, hands at his sides like a soldier summoned by an unseen commander. He walked to the front with steps that didn't belong to him. Too precise. Too measured. Every motion controlled by something that understood human movement but not its weight.
My knees threatened to give.
Logan placed his hand lightly against my forearm—not obvious, just enough to anchor me.
"Breathe," he murmured.
Harry stopped at the stand. Lifted a hand to be sworn in. His voice when he spoke sounded like him and not him—shaped by the same mouth, but stripped of softness; the warmth of memory replaced by a tone as clean and cold as untouched glass.
"I do."
The prosecutor took a step forward. "Officer Doyle, can you please state for the court how you came to identify the defendant, Mr. Hollands, as a suspect?"
Harry looked up.
And when his eyes met mine, the Witness inside him saw everything.
Every lie. Every sin. Every flicker of guilt I had tried to bury.
I felt it ripple through me—like a hand sliding through my memories without permission—cold, exact, merciless.
I inhaled sharply, unable to stop myself.
Something in the room seemed to hush.
Harry's—no, the Witness's—voice came out steady.
"It began with what he did to me."
My stomach dropped.
Logan braced, shifting his weight toward the microphone to object—but Harry wasn't finished.
"He marked me."
A murmur rippled through the courtroom. The judge's eyebrows lifted. The prosecutor's expression sharpened with interest.
Logan rose instantly. "Your Honor, objection—this line of testimony is—"
But Harry kept speaking, voice unwavering, gaze pinned to mine.
"He took something from me."
A pause that felt endless.
"And the flame he used on the house was the same flame he used on me."
The world inside my chest caved.
I gripped the edge of the table to stay upright as the judge called for order, his gavel striking wood like a pulse.
But Harry didn't look away.
Not once.
Not while the room stirred. Not while Logan argued. Not while the prosecutor smirked as though she had already won.
The Witness inside him watched me with a patience older than law.
Older than angels.
Older than hell.
My breathing shuddered in my chest.
I felt the mark under my skin burn—quiet, restrained, but alive.
Corvian's last words scraped across my memory.
Only accept the solution if you're desperate, Hugo.Desperate enough to lose everything but me.
The judge called the room to silence.
I lowered my head, but I still felt Harry's stare pressing into the side of my skull.
And for the first time since solitary, I understood exactly how far the fall would be.
The judge lifted a hand, calling for calm, though nothing in me felt capable of that. The room quieted one voice at a time, like candles being snuffed out.
The prosecutor stepped closer to Harry, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. She adjusted a paper on the lectern, eyes narrowing with a satisfaction she didn't bother hiding.
"Officer Doyle," she began, "you stated the defendant 'marked' you. Could you explain to the court what you meant by that?"
Harry's—his body's—posture didn't shift, but something behind his eyes brightened, like an observer leaning forward. His voice carried no hesitation.
"He tried to bind me."
My throat tightened. Logan's hand twitched subtly on the table, a silent warning. He leaned toward his microphone.
"Objection. Vague and speculative. There is no legal definition for 'binding' in this context—"
But the prosecutor was already cutting in.
"He can clarify," she said coolly. "He's speaking to his experience."
The judge nodded. "Overruled. The witness may continue."
Harry looked straight ahead, but the gaze behind the gaze never left me.
"He used an object," he said. "A pendant."
The room rustled. A shift of jackets, a cough, someone whispering too quietly to catch. I kept my eyes down, but my heart felt like it was being held in someone else's hand, squeezed gently, testing its endurance.
The prosecutor paced a slow line.
"And what did he do with this pendant?" she asked.
Harry's voice lowered. "He drove it into my shoulder."
I flinched before I could control it. Logan's fingers tapped lightly against my arm—barely a touch, but grounding.
"And what happened then?" the prosecutor pressed.
Harry answered in a tone so steady it felt unnatural.
"My blood didn't spill. It vanished into the object." A pause. "Like it was being taken."
My stomach twisted sharply.
He wasn't lying. He wasn't remembering, either. It was the Witness speaking through him—recording what happened, reshaping it into something the room could digest.
Logan rose again. "Your Honor, this entire portion of testimony is unverified. The witness claims supernatural mechanisms. He is describing phenomena outside measurable reality. I move to strike—"
Harry interrupted—not rudely, but with an eerie stillness that cut through Logan's words.
"You asked what he did to me," he said. "I am answering."
The judge exhaled slowly, weighing it. I saw the indecision settle like dust over his features, then dissolve into blunt practicality.
"The trier of fact at trial will weigh credibility. For today, I'm ruling on admissibility." he said.
Logan sat back down with a quiet sigh, running a hand through his hair before leaning close to me.
"Do not react," he whispered, voice barely audible. "They're trying to provoke you."
I nodded, though my body felt carved out, emptied of everything but dread.
The prosecutor turned a page, recentering herself.
"Officer Doyle," she said, "were you able to identify the flame used at the scene of the fire?"
Harry nodded once. "Yes."
"And how does it relate to the defendant?"
"The flame bore the same quality as the one he used on me," he answered. "No natural heat. No smoke. A kind of… absence."
My pulse hammered so loudly I wondered if anyone else could hear it.
"And to be clear," the prosecutor added, her tone sharpening, "you're claiming the defendant used abilities consistent with forbidden entities as defined under the Sovereign Integrity Act?"
Harry lifted his chin slightly. "Yes."
Logan stood again, chair legs scraping.
"Objection," he snapped, sharper than before. "—calls for a legal conclusion; witness is unqualified to classify phenomena."
"He is an officer," she countered.
"And not an expert on supernatural classification."
"Your Honor—"
"Counselors," the judge cut in, voice firm, palms raised, "I will allow the line of questioning but insist both parties refrain from speculation beyond direct experience. Proceed carefully."
Logan sat grudgingly, jaw tight.
The prosecutor stepped closer to Harry, lowering her voice in a tone that softened only to sharpen the blade.
"Officer Doyle," she said, "do you believe Mr. Hollands is responsible for the deaths on September eighth?"
Silence expanded around us. Thick. Heavy. Waiting.
Harry's stare traveled slowly back to me—not with anger, not with grief, not with anything human.
"I do."
For a moment, time felt suspended—not frozen, but stretched thin, trembling, as if the room held its breath in the hope that someone else might speak first.
Logan's breath hitched beside me.
My own chest tightened until the air tasted metallic.
And then Harry continued, each word carved with deliberate weight.
"Because the fire that destroyed that house," he said, "was the same presence that touched me. His flame. His intent."
Logan snapped upright. "Your Honor—"
But before he could finish, the prosecutor raised her voice above his.
"No further questions."
Harry remained standing, cold stillness radiating from him. The judge turned toward Logan.
"Defense may cross-examine."
Logan stood slowly, shoulders braced. When he approached the witness stand, his voice dropped several degrees—calm, steady, almost gentle.
"You're Harry Doyle, cousin to Hugo Hollands, yes? You disclosed that relationship to investigators?"
"Yes."
"Yet you continued to assist the case?"
"Officer Doyle," he continued, "you understand the seriousness of the claims you've made here today, correct?"
Harry's head tilted with mechanical precision. "I do."
"Good," Logan continued. "Because I'd like to go through them carefully. One step at a time."
He paused, letting the silence settle before choosing his first angle.
"When," he asked, "did you regain your memories of this alleged incident with my client?"
Harry blinked—once, deliberately.
"I never lost them."
Logan nodded slowly, though I sensed he expected that answer.
"And yet," he continued, "medical reports following your disappearance indicate psychological distress, dissociation, and gaps in recall. Would you disagree with those findings?"
Harry's jaw tightened slightly. "I would."
"And you believe those medical professionals were… mistaken?"
"Yes."
"Conveniently mistaken?"
The courtroom stirred. The judge watched closely.
Harry didn't flinch. "They did not understand what happened to me."
"And you do?"
"Yes."
"Why is that?"
A faint tremor passed across Harry's expression—not emotion, but something else, like a ripple of awareness.
"Because," he said quietly, "I see the world differently now."
That sent a cold shiver through my arms. Logan didn't react outwardly, but I caught the slight widening of his eyes.
"I'm sure you do," Logan murmured. "Now, Officer Doyle… you claim my client performed acts that defy natural explanation. Can you demonstrate this knowledge or connection in any way that does not rely on subjective experience?"
"Yes."
My heart stuttered.
Logan hesitated only a moment. "And how would you do that?"
Harry lifted his hand slowly—slowly enough that someone in the back row gasped, as if expecting violence.
"When he marked me," he said, "something lingered."
A low hum of whispers spread across the benches.
Logan stiffened. "You're stating under oath that there is a traceable connection between you and my client?"
"Yes."
"And how, exactly, do you propose to demonstrate this?"
Harry looked at me.
Not Logan. Not the judge.
Me.
"If he breathes differently," he said, "I feel it."
The floor seemed to tilt under me.
My lungs tightened in panic, and I tried—tried desperately—not to change my breathing, but the awareness of it made everything collapse in on itself. The Witness watched the falter in my inhale with chilling certainty.
"Like that," Harry murmured.
A sound rippled through the gallery—shock, fear, disbelief.
Logan's face drained of color. He stepped closer to the stand, voice dropping into something strained.
"Officer Doyle," he said steadily, "you are suggesting a supernatural resonance between two living individuals."
Harry nodded. "Correct."
"That is impossible."
"Not to me."
Logan inhaled sharply, the first real break in his composure. He looked down at the table of evidence, then back at Harry.
"Officer Doyle," he said carefully, "what were you before you disappeared?"
"A man," Harry answered.
"And what are you now?"
Harry's eyes didn't blink. Didn't shift.
"I am what he made me."
My vision edged with gray.
The judge's gavel came down, ordering the room back to silence. Logan stepped back slowly, exhaling through his nose.
"No further questions, Your Honor."
He returned to our table, but he didn't sit immediately. Instead, he leaned in close to me, voice low enough only I could hear.
"You need to stay calm," he whispered. "Whatever is happening… whatever he is… you cannot give them any more reason to fear you."
I couldn't answer. My throat had closed too tightly.
The judge called for a brief recess. Everyone began to rise. The prosecutor gathered her papers with quiet triumph. Officers approached Harry to escort him out.
And for one long second before he turned away, he looked at me again—eyes hollow, eyes full, eyes belonging to something old and merciless.
A whisper brushed against the inside of my skull.
He sees you.
My knees almost buckled.
Logan grabbed my elbow, steadying me.
"Hugo," he murmured urgently, "sit. Now."
I obeyed, legs weak beneath me, breath stuttering in my chest.
The courtroom emptied around us.
But no matter how many bodies left the room, I still felt watched.
By Harry. By the Witness inside him. By the truth I could no longer outrun.
And by the mark burning faintly under my skin… waiting.
Logan didn't give me time to breathe once the judge announced recess. He waited just long enough for the gallery to spill out in a tide of murmurs before gripping my arm—not hard, but firm—and whispering near my ear:
"Come with me."
His voice carried the kind of urgency that didn't allow for questions. I let him guide me through a side door, down a narrow hallway lined with framed portraits of past judges whose eyes followed us like silent jurors. The walls smelled of old paper and varnish, the floor creaking lightly beneath every step. I felt the tension in Logan's fingers, the way he kept glancing back at me as if checking I wasn't about to collapse.
We entered a small consultation room—plain walls, a square wooden table, two plastic chairs, a tiny window that let in a muted rectangle of cold daylight. Logan closed the door behind us and turned the lock with a soft click that echoed louder in my head than it should have.
"Hugo," he said quietly. "Sit down."
I did, because my legs were too unstable to argue. My knees knocked the underside of the table as I sank into the chair. Logan remained standing for a moment, pressing his palms against the surface, breathing through clenched teeth the way people did when they were trying not to lose control.
Then he lowered himself slowly into the chair opposite me. The exhaustion in his posture was unmistakable—his shoulders slumped, his jaw tight, his eyes carrying the weight of someone dragged into a nightmare he hadn't been paid enough to imagine.
He leaned in, elbows on the table, voice barely above a whisper but somehow more severe than any shouting could have been.
"What the hell was that?"
I swallowed hard. The room felt too small, too bright, too sharp. "I… I don't know."
Logan let out a short, humorless exhale. "Harry Doyle is not acting like a normal witness. You saw that, right? His mannerisms, his speech, the way he looked at you." He shook his head, almost to himself. "It felt like he was reading from something only he could see."
"He wasn't supposed to be there," I murmured. "He… shouldn't be—"
Logan cut in gently, but firmly. "I know you're scared. I know this is a lot. But Hugo, I need you here. I need the truth."
My throat tightened again. "I didn't mean for this to happen."
"I'm not talking about guilt," he said, voice softening for the first time. "I'm talking about clarity. That testimony—whatever it was—puts us in a dangerous position. If the prosecution spins it as evidence of intentional harm, you are going away for a very long time, do you understand?"
I nodded slowly, fingers curling against my knees.
Logan rubbed his forehead. "He said you 'marked' him. What does that mean to you?"
The word echoed in my skull. The kiss. The breath. Corvian's hands on my face. The mirror shattering. The air turning alive with something I didn't understand.
I stared past Logan's shoulder at the small window. "I don't know how to explain it."
"You need to try."
A tremor ran through me. I felt the mark under my skin throb—not violently, but enough to remind me of the chain linking me to someone miles away in a world no courtroom acknowledged. My breath hitched.
Logan noticed.
"You're reacting physically," he said. "What's happening?"
"Nothing," I whispered.
"Hugo."
His tone had that bone-deep firmness that stripped away every excuse I wanted to hide behind. I met his eyes. They looked tired, but not unfriendly. He wasn't trying to trap me. He was trying to understand a case that no mortal system was built to try.
"It's complicated," I finally said. "Harry wasn't supposed to remember. That's all."
Logan leaned back slightly. "Not supposed to… how? Did you do something to him? Did someone else?"
I shook my head. "I don't know how to explain it without sounding insane."
He exhaled through his nose. "Then sound insane. I'll figure out the legal part."
I lowered my head into my hands for a moment, pressing my fingers against my temples until sparks danced behind my eyelids.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," I whispered. "It wasn't supposed to touch him."
Logan went still.
Then, very quietly:
"Hugo… when you say 'touch'… what exactly do you mean?"
I felt my pulse crash against my ribs. My mouth opened but nothing coherent came out. He studied me carefully, and I could feel him piecing together every twitch in my expression.
Finally, Logan leaned closer, voice dropping lower than before, gentle but precise.
"I need to tell you something," he said. "And you need to brace yourself."
My chest tightened instantly. "What?"
He hesitated—actually hesitated—his eyes flicking to the door as if checking we were still alone. When he looked back at me, the lines around his mouth had deepened.
"Hugo," he said quietly, "your friend Edgard—Eddie… the one you mentioned? The one who helped you early in your career?"
My heart stopped in its rhythm.
"Yes?" I whispered.
"He's dead."
The words landed like a blow.
Logan didn't look away as he continued, voice almost apologetic.
"He was identified as one of the casualties of the September eighth fire."
It felt as if the floor dropped away from me.
All the air rushed out of my lungs. My ears rang. My fingers went numb against the table edge. The world around me dimmed at the edges, not fading but pulling tight, like someone tightening a rope around my ribs.
"You're lying," I breathed. "No. No—he wasn't… he wasn't there."
Logan's expression didn't shift. "The reports list his full name. Edgard Ruiz. Confirmed by dental records. He died from smoke inhalation and structural collapse."
My vision blurred. My mouth tasted dry, bitter, hollow. I stared at Logan's face, waiting for any sign of doubt, some hint that he wasn't sure, that maybe it was a mistake.
There was none.
The room seemed to tilt.
Eddie. Eddie at the deli. Eddie at the Morrison. Eddie clapping, shouting, laughing at the rooftop. Eddie hugging me backstage. Eddie telling me not to burn myself out. Eddie not answering his phone afterward. Eddie missing. Eddie dead.
In that house.
The house I ignited.
The flame Henry asked for. The flame Corvian taught me to control. The flame I struck into the wood and left behind.
My fault. My hands. My spark. My sin.
My breath broke into pieces. My body shook. My palms pressed into my eyes as if that could stop the images from forming.
Logan leaned forward, lowering his voice into something pained.
"Hugo," he said, "I'm telling you this now because the prosecution will bring it up during trial. And they will use it. They will accuse you of killing someone you once called a friend."
I shook my head violently, trying to push the words out of the air. "No—no, he wasn't supposed to be there. He wasn't supposed—he wasn't—"
Logan's voice softened even further. "I'm sorry."
A sound escaped me—small, strangled, foreign. Grief crawled up my throat like something alive, something jagged.
"I didn't know," I whispered. "I didn't know he was in the house."
I bowed my head over the table and closed my eyes, hearing only one repeated truth, whispered by something unkind in the back of my mind:
You did this.
The room fell silent, except for my own shaking breaths. My palms pressed flat against the wooden surface as if I could hold myself together through pressure alone, but the moment kept slipping through my fingers, spilling out like something uncontrollable.
Logan didn't speak at first. He watched me—really watched me—the way someone watches a burning building from the street, unsure if they should rush in or stay back. His expression shifted as pieces clicked together in his mind, one by one, with the slow inevitability of falling dominoes.
When he finally spoke, his voice had changed. It was still soft. Still careful. But beneath it, a blade gleamed.
"Hugo," he said quietly, "look at me."
I didn't move.
"Hugo."
There was something in his tone that pulled my gaze upward. My vision blurred around the edges, eyes burning. Logan leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped as if in prayer—except nothing about this moment felt sacred.
It felt like confession.
And then he asked it.
"So you caused the fire."
The words didn't explode. They didn't slam through the room. They dropped—slow, heavy, final—as if placed gently on the table between us.
I felt the impact in my ribs.
My breath caught, stumbling. Every part of me recoiled—not out of anger, but from the sudden exposure, the nakedness of being understood too clearly.
"I…" My voice broke before I could shape the word. "I didn't know he was there. I didn't know anyone was inside."
Logan didn't react with shock or disgust. He didn't lean back or look away. He simply absorbed my words with a kind of devastating patience.
"So you did cause it," he said again, softer this time, almost sorrowfully.
I blinked hard, the room trembling with me. "I didn't mean for it to happen. He lied to me. I didn't think— I didn't think anyone—"
My throat closed. The tears that had threatened finally broke free, warm against my cold skin.
Logan exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes for half a second before opening them again. "Hugo… this changes everything. Do you understand that?"
I shook my head helplessly. "I didn't know Eddie would be there. I didn't know anyone would be there. I swear to God, I thought the house was empty."
Logan watched me with an expression I'd never seen on him before—something caught between pity and dread.
"Hugo," he said quietly, "if you started that fire… even unintentionally… the prosecution will argue intent. They will frame it as calculated. They will use Harry's testimony. They will use everything."
"I didn't mean it," I whispered. "I swear I didn't mean it."
"I believe you," Logan said immediately. And he did—the sincerity hit me with a force that made my chest hurt. "But belief doesn't change what the evidence looks like. And right now, it looks damning."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice until it almost dissolved into the air between us.
"Tell me something, and tell me honestly," he said. "Did someone ask you to start that fire?"
My pulse stumbled. Henry's voice flashed through memory. No trace. No witnesses. No survivors. Corvian's warning. The money is on a leash. Helena's nod when she handed me the suitcase. Eddie's face in the flames.
Panic surged violently through me, squeezing my lungs until they spasmed.
"Logan, please," I whispered, shaking my head, "I can't—"
His voice sharpened. "Hugo. If someone used you—if you were manipulated—this could shift everything in your defense."
I stared at him, unable to speak. I saw the desperation in his eyes, the calculation, the tiny flicker of hope he was trying so hard to resurrect.
But the mark under my skin pulsed once—faint, warning, hot.
Corvian's distant voice echoed in me: Do not say his name.Do not say mine.
Logan saw the fear flicker across my face. He misread it, but in a way that still carved into me.
"Did you owe someone money?" he asked. "Were you threatened? Forced? Coerced?"
His voice softened painfully.
"Hugo… were you scared?"
The truth pressed up my throat but couldn't escape. Not here. Not with the Witness in the next room. Not with the pact around my ribs like an invisible noose. Not with devils watching from corners mortal eyes couldn't see.
"I was stupid," I whispered. "That's all. I was stupid."
Logan shook his head. "That's not a legal defense."
"I don't know what to tell you," I said, voice cracking. "I don't know what to do."
Logan reached across the table, touching my wrist—not forcefully, but grounding, almost fatherly in a way that hurt more than it helped.
"Then let me tell you what not to do," he said. "From this moment, no extrajudicial statements. No phones, no kites, no pillow talk. If you speak, it's to me. Full stop."
I swallowed hard. "But—"
"No." His voice hardened. "You tell no one."
He let go of my wrist slowly.
"We need time," he said. "We need to strategize. But right now, we survive the day."
A knock sounded on the door—sharp, impatient.
"Mr. Carrey," an officer called, "recess is over. Back in the courtroom."
Logan rose, smoothing the front of his blazer, breathing once through his nose before turning to me.
"Stand up," he said quietly. "And don't look at Harry when we walk in. I mean it."
I pushed myself to my feet, legs unsteady, the room shifting slightly as I found my balance. Logan opened the door. The hallway beyond looked too bright, too narrow, too close to the truth I had just spoken out loud.
As we stepped into it, he murmured without looking at me:
"We'll get through this. Somehow."
But the mark under my skin throbbed again—slow, dark, knowing. And all I could think as we walked back toward the courtroom was:
Eddie was in the fire.
And I had lit the match.