Fifteen hours later, I'm standing in front of a war map wondering when my life became DLC content.
The council chamber smells like ink, wax, and quiet panic. A huge map of the borderlands stretches across the table—lines for rivers and roads, little iron markers for armies, red flags where things are on fire.
There are a lot of red flags.
"the enemy vanguard has breached the outer ward," a general is saying. "If we don't hold them at Dawnridge, they'll have a clear march to the capital."
I know this part.
In the game, this was an early "world tension event." You got a cutscene of the empire barely holding the frontline while Fiametta stayed in the capital, sneering about politics. It raised the "Crisis Meter" and gave you an excuse to see your chosen heroine being heroic in the war reports.
I was supposed to watch this from a safe, CG-optimized distance.
Instead, I'm physically here. In the room. Wearing battle clothes.
I glance down at myself.
Apparently, "battle clothes" for Lady Fiametta means a high-collared, black-and-crimson coat embroidered with phoenixes, fitted over leather, over lace, over the soul of some tailor who sold theirs for aesthetic. A crimson cloak drapes from my shoulders, fastened with a ruby clasp. My hair is braided back, then left to cascade like golden fire down my back.
I look like the final boss who appears on the enemy's horizon when the soundtrack adds a choir.
On my right, Seraphine stands in white and gold armor, cape pinned with the imperial crest. On my left, Elira is all polished steel and muscle, hands resting lightly on the hilt of her greatsword. Lyriel leans against a pillar in layered blue robes, staff glowing faintly at the tip, while Mira's white-and-rose vestments brush the floor as she moves, soft eyes tracking the generals with quiet intensity.
All four female leads. All in the same room.
All glancing at me every few seconds like I'm the actual sun.
[Seraphine Affection: MAX ❤️]
[Elira Affection: MAX ❤️]
[Lyriel Affection: MAX ❤️]
[Mira Affection: MAX ❤️]
The HUD is basically screaming.
"I still object to you being anywhere near the frontline." Seraphine's voice slides in under the general's report, soft but steel-edged. "You collapsed yesterday, Fia."
"And stabilized," I counter. "The healers cleared me for 'light activity.' " I make air quotes. They look weirdly elegant. "Standing and looking scary counts as light activity."
"It's the frontline," Elira mutters. "Nothing about it is light."
"Exactly," Lyriel says dryly. "You're not a stable mana source, Fiametta. If you overexert"
"I won't," I say quickly. "I just stand behind the lines, radiate intimidating vibes, and everyone goes home happy. This is Basic War Psychology 101."
Mira studies me for a long moment, hands folded at her waist.
"You're frightened," she says softly.
"Nope," I lie. "Just genre-aware."
She tilts her head.
"Genre?"
"Don't worry about it."
A throat clears at the head of the table. The High Marshal looks like sleep is something he broke up with twenty years ago.
"Lady Fiametta," he says carefully, as if addressing a hyper-condensed nuke, "your presence on the ridge will bolster morale. If the enemy realizes the 'Flame of the Empire' is here, they may falter."
Right. In canon, Fiametta was ridiculously powerful. Her stats in the data files were borderline illegal. She was the only person flagged as "Final Calamity" instead of "Human."
I figured that was just flavor text.
Now they want to use it like a banner buff.
"We'll keep you behind several layers of lines," he continues. "Far from the direct fighting. Strictly symbolic. If things go poorly, we'll withdraw you immediately. Princess Seraphine will command the vanguard. Knight-Captain Elira, the shield line. Archmage Lyriel, the artillery. Saintess Mira, battlefield support. Lady Fiametta, you…exist."
"That I can do," I say weakly.
Seraphine doesn't look convinced. Her fingers brush mine under the table, a tiny, secret touch.
"If you so much as sway," she whispers, "I'm carrying you back myself."
My face tries to combust. "Understood," I mumble.
The map glows faintly as Lyriel traces defensive formations. Outside, war horns sound in the distance.
In the game, this battle was a tense but scripted affair: the army nearly breaks, the heroines shine, and Fiametta's absence cements everyone's distrust.
Here?
I'm about to walk onto the scene personally and my death flag is ticking quietly in the corner of my vision.
The frontline looks like a painting someone set on fire.
Dawnridge is less a ridge and more a long, rocky spine rising from the plains. Our forces are arrayed along it in layered formations: infantry in dark armor, archers setting arrowheads alight, mages with glowing staves. Standards snap in the wind flaming roses on crimson cloth.
Across the field, the enemy army churns like a black tide. Banners of a rival kingdom storm-wolves on grey—whip above ranks of soldiers, siege engines, and too many robed figures to be comfortable.
"Can confirm," I mutter as Elira helps me dismount at the command position. "That's a lot of sprites on the map."
Elira huffs a laugh despite herself. "Don't worry," she says. "They're just men and mages. You've handled worse."
"I haven't handled anything," I start, then remember that in this world, I definitely have. "I mean…yeah. Sure. No problem. Casual Tuesday."
Seraphine joins us, visor up, eyes on the enemy lines.
"They brought their whole order of stormcallers," she says. "Lyriel?"
"I see them," Lyriel replies, from where she's standing a little behind us, staff humming. "If they coordinate properly, they could crack the ridge."
"Not if we break them first," Seraphine says.
I know this layout. I recognize lines from the game's war CGs, but everything is sharper, louder. Men shifting shields. Horses snorting. The dry taste of dust and coming lightning in the air.
And over all of it, the quiet awareness that if I die here, there is no "reload save" option.
A cough tickles at the back of my throat.
Not now.
I pinch fingers into my palm until the urge fades.
"Remember," I tell myself, "symbolic presence. No casting. No overexerting. You stand. You glower. You collect achievement: 'Survived One Battle Without Exploding.'"
"Archers, ready!" the shout rolls down the line.
Seraphine raises her sword, the gesture smooth and practiced. Sunlight glances off the blade, turning it briefly into a bar of white fire.
"Remember your training!" she calls, voice carrying over the ridge. "Remember what you protect! This is our home! We do not yield!"
A cheer rises, ragged but strong.
Mira steps up beside me, lifting her staff. A soft white light spreads like mist over the front ranks, settling on armor, into lungs, steadying hands.
"Blessings to all who stand," she murmurs. "May their hearts not falter."
Her magic feels like warm water around my bones. It makes the constant, low-grade dizziness recede a little.
"Thanks," I say under my breath.
She smiles at me, gentle and a little sad.
"I'm always watching you," she says. "Even when you pretend you don't need it."
My ears heat. "Busted," I say.
A horn blasts from the enemy lines.
The black tide begins to move.
"Archers!" Seraphine's sword drops. "Loose!"
Flaming arrows darken the sky, then fall in a blazing curtain. Enemy shields come up. Some shots hit. Some don't. The distance is still too far.
Their mages answer.
Lightning arcs across the battlefield, slamming into the front of the ridge. Men stagger, shields crackle. The smell of ozone lashes the air.
The HUD flashes red for a second.
Environmental Hazard: Lightning Barrage – Minor.
"Lyriel," Seraphine snaps.
"On it," Lyriel murmurs.
She lifts her staff.
Where Seraphine's presence is blazing and Mira's is soft, Lyriel's magic feels like a knife of cold clarity. Blue sigils spin into existence in the sky, forming a translucent dome over our forces. The next volley of lightning slams into it and shatters like glass against stone.
Elira grins, feral. "That's our mage," she says. "Bet she could outcast their entire order alone."
"I could," Lyriel says calmly. "But I'd prefer not to prove it right now."
The armies close.
Shouts. Metal on metal. The ridge becomes a line of clashing bodies.
From up here, the battle is a moving pattern. Our shield line holds as Elira's voice booms commands. She's like a wedge of steel, moving where the line wavers, her greatsword carving through advancing foes.
She looks…cool. Too cool. The game never showed this angle.
A scream rises from further down the ridge. One section of the line staggers, men tumbling as an explosion tears the ground apart.
I flinch.
"There," Lyriel says sharply, pointing with her staff. "They're focusing their stormcallers on a single point. Trying to punch a hole."
The HUD pings.
Crisis Flag: Line Break (Dawnridge) – Active.If unaddressed, enemy will breach within 5 minutes.
In the game, this was where the heroine you'd invested in pulled a deus ex machina move. Or where, if you'd done poorly, you got a cutscene of the enemy bleeding onto the capital.
I'm here now.
And the breach point is uncomfortably close to our position.
Seraphine's jaw tightens. "Elira! Pull the second rank—"
Another coordinated barrage hits. The shield line buckles. Men go flying. A chunk of the ridge crumbles away, tumbling down the slope in a hail of rock and bodies.
A narrow, ugly gap opens in our defense.
The enemy surges for it.
The world narrows around that point.
"Fia," Seraphine says, voice low. "Stay here."
She takes a step forward.
Something in me rebels.
The part that has spent hundreds of hours optimizing routes and min-maxing affection values screams that this is a death flag—for someone. A heroine. A line of nameless soldiers. The game might have let that happen if you played badly.
But this isn't pixels.
I'm not okay with it being "just a cutscene."
"Wait," I hear myself say.
My hand rises of its own accord.
"Fia" Seraphine turns back, alarm flaring in her eyes. "Don't you dare"
"I'm just going to…limit their options," I say, my voice sounding distant in my own ears. "Light activity. I promise."
I step forward to the very edge of the command ridge.
The wind tugs at my cloak. Down below, men are still scrambling, trying to reform ranks around the gap. The enemy is pouring toward it like water toward a crack in a dam.
I raise my right hand.
The world responds.
It's not subtle.
Fire is everywhere here: in the banners, in the way people talk about passion and loyalty, in the empire's very crest. But underneath all of that, there's something else. A deeper current. A sleeping dragon of heat coiled beneath reality.
It looks up when I call.
My vision blurs for a moment, overlayed with sigils and lines, like someone dropped a transparent, coded grid over the world. Enemy formations highlight in red. Our own in gold. The gap glows like a wound.
In the corner of my eye, the HUD goes wild.
WARNING: Final Calamity Protocols – Partially Unlocking.Spell: [Unnamed Flame Authority] – Output: UNKNOWN.Recommended: DO NOT CAST.
My throat feels dry.
"I said 'light activity,'" I whisper. "So…small. Contained. Don't nuke the map. Don't delete the route. Just…make a wall."
I picture a barrier of flame dropping in front of the gap. Intimidating but not deadly. Enough to deter, not to destroy.
The dragon of heat under reality flicks its tail.
Oh, it seems to say. You want a wall?
Let's talk about walls.
Mana surges up through me like a volcanic eruption in reverse. My breath hitches. For a second, my chest is nothing but white heat. My fingers tingle, then blaze.
Seraphine shouts my name.
I speak without meaning to.
"Crimson Domain."
The words slam into the air like command codes.
There is a sound like the world inhaling.
Then everything catches fire.
Not normal fire. Not the messy, yellow-orange tongues you get from torches. This is clinical. Precise. A curtain of red-white flame drops from the sky in a perfect, shimmering arc in front of our lines, stretching from one end of the ridge to the other, including the gap.
The enemy army runs directly into it.
They do not burn so much as…vanish. Anything that crosses the line disintegrates into scarlet sparks, drifting upward before winking out. Siege engines, soldiers, spells—gone.
The flames do not touch our side. The heat washes over us like a summer breeze.
Silence falls.
The stormcallers hurl another lightning barrage in panic. The bolts hit the wall of flame and dissipate instantly, as if they've slammed into an ocean.
The enemy charge falters.
The wall stands.
I stare, hand still outstretched, fingers shaking.
"I…only meant to make a little firewall," I whisper.
Lyriel makes a soft, strangled sound.
"Little," she repeats faintly. "You erected a world-tier annihilation barrier without a chant."
Mira's staff clatters from her hand as she claps them over her mouth, eyes wide.
Elira is just staring at the battlefield, where an entire wing of the enemy army has ceased to exist.
"By all the Saints," she breathes.
Seraphine looks at me not like I'm a weapon, but like I'm something she can't bear to see break.
"Fia," she says. "Fia, look at me."
My legs feel…wrong. Too light. Like they might float away or collapse or both.
I force my head to turn.
Seraphine's eyes are huge.
"You're bleeding," she says.
It takes me a second to register the warmth running down from my nose. Then the copper taste hits the back of my throat.
Ah.
There it is.
I sway.
The HUD flashes red.
Severe Mana Expenditure Detected.Vital Stability: 39%.Symptom Cascade: Imminent.
"Oh, that's not great," I say conversationally.
The world tilts.
I fall.
Strong arms catch me before I hit the ground—Seraphine's, I think, from the scent of perfume and the choked noise near my ear.
Somewhere far away, people are shouting. Horns are blaring. The enemy is retreating in disarray, their charge shattered by the pretty red line of "oops" I dropped on the map.
Closer, I hear Mira's frantic voice.
"Her pulse is erratic"
"No internal rupture," Lyriel snaps. "It's backlash. Too much mana through a damaged vessel."
"I told her not to cast," Seraphine's voice breaks. "I told her—"
I try to open my eyes. The ceiling of the sky spins lazily. Seraphine's face swims above mine, blurred by sunlight and something wet in her eyes.
"Hey," I manage, voice a papery whisper. "Told you…light…activity."
Blood bubbles at the corner of my lips. Mira wipes it away quickly, her hands glowing with gentle light. It eases the pressure in my chest a little, but not all.
"Fia," Seraphine says, bending lower. "Stay with me. Don't you dare close your eyes."
"Hard not to," I mumble. "Interface keeps…flickering."
"Interface?" Lyriel demands.
"Later," Seraphine snaps. "Fia, look at me."
I do, because her voice is gravity.
Her eyes are so blue. The world could end in them.
"Did…good?" I ask, because somewhere in my gamer brain, a part of me wants to know if I cleared the event.
She laughs, a broken sound.
"You annihilated an entire army by accident," she says. "Yes. You did 'good.' Now survive the aftermath."
My vision darkens at the edges.
"I'll…try," I whisper.
Then the darkness wins.
When I wake up again, I'm in a different big, ornate room.
This one is made of marble and banners and way too many echoing voices.
My head feels like I got hit by a cutscene.
"stabilized now. But if she continues to draw on her authority at this rate—"
"Will not let her step on another battlefield without—"
"Saved the entire ridge! The empire owes her—"
Sound resolves slowly, like someone tuning a radio.
I'm lying on a raised dais, not a bed. A throne room, my mind supplies belatedly. Velvet under my palms, cool stone under my heels. My cloak has been rearranged artfully around me, my hair brushed back. Someone touched me while I was unconscious.
My eyes open fully.
The throne room is packed.
Nobles in jewel tones. Generals in armor. Servants pressed to the walls. Outside the great open doors, I can see a sea of commoners in the plaza, craning to look in.
At the far end, on the high throne, the Emperor sits in his layered white and crimson robes, crown gleaming. He looks like Seraphine, if you aged her up thirty years and replaced "emotional wildfire" with "entire volcano range pretending to be calm."
Seraphine herself stands at my side, not at the Emperor's. One of her hands is wrapped around mine, grip firm and warm. I become aware of the others around me in a ring:
Elira, standing at parade rest, eyes darting between my face and the crowd.
Lyriel, composed but with tight lines at the corners of her eyes.
Mira, fingers interlaced over her heart, lips moving in a silent prayer.
All four.
All close enough to touch.
The Emperor's voice cuts through the murmur.
"Lady Fiametta von Ardentis," he intones. "You wake?"
"Define 'wake,'" I croak, then wince. My throat is raw.
The court rustles, scandalized.
I probably should have gone with "Yes, Your Majesty."
The Emperor's mouth twitches like he's suppressing a smile.
"You stand before the empire as the savior of Dawnridge," he says. "Your barrier spell annihilated the enemy vanguard and forced their retreat. Casualties on our side were reduced by more than half."
The numbers hit me like a delayed shock. Annihilated the enemy vanguard. That had been…thousands of people.
My stomach flips.
"I didn't…mean to kill that many," I whisper, more to myself than anyone.
Mira's hand finds my shoulder, a gentle squeeze. A reminder: battlefield. Attackers. Not children. Not NPCs. But still.
"Your magic saved countless lives," she says softly, as if hearing my thought. "Do not carry this alone."
The Emperor rises to his feet.
"By my right as Emperor," he declares, voice booming through the hall, "I proclaim Lady Fiametta von Ardentis Hero of the Ridge. From this day forth, your name shall be inscribed among the empire's greatest protectors."
Cheers erupt, rolling like thunder. Outside, the crowd takes it up—my name, the one that used to only appear in death flags, now shouted like a blessing.
My cheeks burn.
The Emperor raises a hand. The noise quiets.
"As a token of our gratitude," he says, "we offer land, title, wealth, and any boon you would ask within reason."
A hundred noble eyes fix on me.
Otome game brain: This is the "Name Your Reward" scene. This is where you can ask for plot-changing things. In the base game, Fiametta wasn't here. The heroines got specific buffs, or a route got nudged, depending on your choices.
I could ask for research into my illness. For a cure. For freedom from the frontlines. For…answers about the "Fire" genre.
My mouth opens.
"Your Majesty," I start. "My only wish is"
"to marry me," Seraphine says.
The room freezes.
I turn my head so fast it's a miracle my neck doesn't break.
Seraphine is looking at me, not her father. Her face is flushed, but her eyes are steady.
"I know the engagement was to be announced today regardless," she says, voice carrying clear as a bell. "But after what has happened, I no longer wish it to be treated as mere politics. Fia has given the empire everything. I want her to have what she deserves."
She squeezes my hand.
"Me," she says simply. "As her wife. Publicly. Officially. Let no one mistake where I stand."
The court goes from frozen to detonated.
Voices. Gasps. Someone drops something expensive. Outside, the crowd surges, cheering even louder, because they heard the word marry and they're starving for drama.
The Emperor's brows lift.
"We had discussed," he says slowly, "a formal betrothal announcement—"
"This is better," Seraphine interrupts, bowing her head briefly to him before turning back to me. "Fia. Will you marry me?"
She asks it like we're alone in a quiet room, not the emotional center of a burning empire.
My brain tries very hard to shut down.
MAX affection hearts float in the HUD, all around her name. My heart is doing its own CG animation.
"Uh," I say eloquently.
Before my CPU can reboot, another voice cuts in.
"Your Majesty," Elira says, stepping forward.
Oh no.
"Knight-Captain?" the Emperor says, and I can hear the "oh no" in his voice too.
Elira drops to one knee. In full armor. In front of everyone.
"I too would ask for a boon," she says, head bowed, voice firm. "As one who has served Lady Fiametta for years on the field and off… I ask that, if marriage is being discussed, my candidacy also be considered."
She looks up, cheeks faintly pink, eyes blazing.
"Fiametta," she says, and hearing my name without title from her is…a lot. "Marry me. Let me protect you properly. As your knight. As your wife."
The room explodes again.
"W–W–Wait," I sputter.
Lyriel sighs.
"Oh, for the love of arcane logic," she mutters, then steps forward as well, staff tapping lightly on the marble.
"I see no reason to maintain the polite fiction any longer," she says coolly. "You all heard the telemetry from the battlefield. Fiametta's authority is unstable. If anyone is qualified to monitor and manage it, it's me."
She lifts her chin, meeting my eyes dead-on.
"In the interest of both personal and national stability," she says, tone deceptively clinical, "I also propose marriage. To you. Obviously."
"Obviously?" I squeak.
"Obviously," she repeats, and the slightest smile curves her lips, quick as a flicker of flame. "Who else could tolerate your recklessness and rewrite half the spellbooks in the process?"
Mira, who has been very, very quiet, takes a deep breath.
"Oh," I whisper weakly. "No, wait—"
She kneels too, robes pooling around her like a soft halo.
"Your Majesty," she says, voice steady but shining with emotion, "I have watched over Lady Fiametta's fragile life since we were children. I have prayed for her in every chapel and warded her through every collapse. My heart has long since chosen her."
She looks up at me, eyes luminous with unshed tears.
"If there is to be a formal bond," she says softly, "then I, too, wish to stand by her side. Fiametta…marry me. Please."
Silence, for half a heartbeat.
Then pandemonium.
The court is a beehive kicked into motion. Some nobles are arguing about succession laws. Others are betting actual money on outcomes. Outside, the crowd has picked up a new chant: "Marry! Marry! Marry!"
The Emperor lifts both hands.
"Order," he booms. "ORDER!"
Reluctantly, the noise quiets.
He presses thumb and forefinger briefly to the bridge of his nose, as if fending off a headache.
"Let me see if I understand," he says slowly. "My daughter, my Knight-Captain, my Archmage, and my Saintess have all, in front of the entire empire, proposed marriage to the same terminally ill overpowered villainess who just accidentally annihilated an army."
"Correct," Lyriel says.
"Accurate," Elira adds.
"I did not mean for it to sound so chaotic," Mira says, flushing. "But yes."
Seraphine just squeezes my hand again.
"Fia?" she prompts, eyes searching mine. "What do you want?"
Everyone looks at me.
Four MAX affection meters hover in the corner of my vision, pulsing gently.
I am, technically speaking, the otome gamer's ultimate jackpot.
I swallow.
Somewhere under the shock and embarrassment and the faint copper tang that still lingers in my mouth, there's a cold, sharp awareness: I don't know how long I have. My illness is still flagged as terminal. Irreversible. No cure listed.
But right now, four blazing, terrifyingly real women are looking at me like I'm the center of their world.
In the original game, Fiametta died alone more often than not.
I look at Seraphine's fierce, trembling smile. At Elira's steady devotion. At Lyriel's calculating warmth. At Mira's gentle, desperate hope.
"Genre: Fire," I think.
Love that burns bright. Consequences that stick. Reality that bleeds.
Maybe there isn't a "right" answer here.
But there is an honest one.
"I…" My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat. "I don't want to die alone."
The room goes very still.
"I don't know how long I have," I say, because if this is a confession flag, we're doing it properly. "I don't know if there's a cure. I don't know if I can control what I did on that battlefield. Everything is…terrifying."
I let out a shaky breath.
"But when I woke up here," I continue, "the thing that scared me most wasn't the magic or the war or the death flags. It was how easily I could imagine all of you hating me. Because that's how the story was supposed to go."
Seraphine's grip tightens. Elira's jaw clenches. Lyriel's fingers tighten around her staff. Mira's eyes shine brighter.
"And yet," I say, "you didn't. Somehow, your affection is…broken. Maxed out. Against the script."
A hysterical laugh bubbles up. I swallow it down.
"So," I finish quietly, "if the universe is going to cheat in my favor for once…then I want to be selfish too."
I look at the Emperor.
"At minimum," I say, "I accept Seraphine's proposal."
Seraphine's breath catches. Her eyes go wide, then spill over with tears she doesn't let fall.
"But…" I add quickly, before chaos resumes, "I would also like the legal framework explored for…multiple concurrent marriages."
Dead silence.
I press on, because I'm committed now.
"I know it's unprecedented," I say. "I know it will cause political headaches. But these four—" my voice wobbles, "—have stood by me, worried over me, risked themselves for me. If I only choose one and leave the others in the cold when I might not have much time… I don't think I'd forgive myself."
I meet each of their eyes in turn.
"If you'll have me," I say, cheeks burning, "I want all of you. As long as we're alive. As long as this world lets us."
The throne room is so quiet I can hear Mira's shaky exhale.
Then Seraphine laughs. It's loud and bright and slightly unhinged.
"Of course you'd turn a royal proposal into a systemic overhaul," she says, eyes shining with pride. "That's my Fia."
Elira grins, fierce and delighted. "Works for me," she says. "As long as I get to stand between you and anything trying to kill you."
"I suppose," Lyriel murmurs, a smile finally breaking across her face, "that experimenting with a new legal paradigm is in line with my research interests."
Mira just starts crying outright, but it's the good kind of crying. She wipes at her eyes, laughing softly.
"I…don't mind sharing," she says, voice trembling. "As long as we're together."
The Emperor looks like he's aged five years in five minutes. Then, slowly, he starts to laugh too, deep and incredulous.
"Genre: Fire indeed," he mutters. "Very well."
He raises his voice.
"Let it be recorded," he declares, "that the empire will convene a special council to draft the terms of a…multi-party imperial union, centered on Lady Fiametta von Ardentis, Hero of the Ridge."
The court erupts.
Some are outraged. Some are thrilled. Outside, the crowd screams itself hoarse.
Through it all, the four women around me lean in, closing the circle. Seraphine presses her forehead lightly to mine. Elira's gauntleted hand lands warm and solid on my shoulder. Lyriel's fingers brush my wrist, checking my pulse, just because she can. Mira cups my cheek, healing light faintly pulsing against my skin.
I'm dizzy. My chest still aches. My illness hasn't magically vanished.
But I'm not alone.
"Congratulations," the HUD pops up a tiny notification only I can see.
New Route Unlocked: Burning ConstellationA path where one villainess defies the script, four heroines refuse to let go, and the world itself must adjust.Warning: FIRE genre. Expect collateral emotions.
"Yeah," I whisper under the roar of the crowd, letting my eyes close for just a moment, surrounded by warmth and impossible love.
"Bring it on."