We held a séance tonight. No, really. Isabell found a dusty, half-melted candle behind the pharmacy counter. We lit it. The tiny flame was the most alive thing in the room. Lily suggested we try to contact... something. Anything. The old world. A ghost. God. A grocery store manager with the code to the stockroom.

We sat in a circle, knees touching. The rules were simple: ask a question, wait for a sign. Lillian went first. 'Show me power,' she whispered, her voice like gravel. The candle flame bent sideways, stretching long and thin, casting her shadow huge and monstrous on the wall behind her. She smiled. She got her answer.

Scarlet asked for strength. The flame snapped upright, fierce and bright for a second. She sat taller.

My turn. I didn't ask for food. I asked for a memory. Not of a person, but of a feeling. The specific, breathtaking weightlessness of an orgasm so powerful it whites out your brain. The kind where you're so full—of cock, of fingers, of a tongue working your clit—that you forget your own name. The candle guttered, almost died, then flared with a sudden, violent pop. A hot bead of wax splashed onto my bare thigh. I didn't flinch. The sharp sting was an answer. A promise. A reminder that pleasure is just pain transformed.

Then it was Isabell's turn. She leaned forward, her tits almost touching the flame. 'Show me my purpose,' she breathed. And the flame... danced. It swayed, hips and curves, a tiny fire-striptease just for her. We all saw it. Her purpose isn't to lead or to follow. It's to burn, beautifully and dangerously, until there's nothing left but light and heat for the rest of us to huddle near.

We're not waiting for rescue. We're summoning what we need from the dark. What question would you ask the flame? And what are you afraid it would show you?