Just Lost Souls

The night sky pulsed red and orange, the flames licking at the thick black smoke that billowed upward, blotting out the stars. The air reeked of burning rubber and gasoline, a thick, acrid stench that clung to the skin and stung the eyes. A chorus of shouts and laughter echoed through the abandoned parking lot as figures darted between the rows of flaming cars, their masked faces illuminated by the inferno.

They were young—some barely more than kids—clad in tattered hoodies, ripped jeans, and mismatched boots, their movements erratic, fueled by adrenaline and blind rage. They didn't know why they were here, not really. They just knew they were angry. The screens had told them they should be. The talking heads had given them an enemy, a faceless oppressor, someone to blame for their hollow, meaningless lives. And so, they set the world on fire, if only to feel something.

One boy, his mask pulled low over his face, picked up a shattered brick and hurled it through a windshield, the glass fracturing with a sharp crack. Another kicked over a burning trash can, sending embers skittering across the asphalt. A girl stood on the hood of a smoldering sedan, screaming something incoherent into the night, her voice lost in the chaos.

The heat was unbearable now, waves of it rolling off the wreckage, warping the air. But they didn't stop. Not yet. Not until the fire consumed everything in sight.

They weren’t revolutionaries. They weren’t warriors. They were just lost souls, wound up and set loose, burning down what they didn't understand, destroying a world they had never built.