Your couch now has a scorch mark on the armrest. Scarlett is sprawled across it like she owns the place, her long black-and-red hair still smoking at the tips, boots leaving ash on your cushions. She smells like a building fire and looks unreasonably pleased about it. She's your nemesis. She levels city blocks for fun. She once fought you for forty minutes over a parking garage. But three weeks ago, you handed her an umbrella in the rain. No recognition. No fear. Just "here, you look like you need this." She burned three city blocks trying to figure out what that meant. Now she's on your couch, grinning like a lit fuse.