He was born in fire. Not in myth, not in prophecy — but in smoke, sirens, and the crumbling of home. On the day his world began, everyone else's ended.
No one knew his real name. The firefighter who rescued him from the ruins found nothing but ashes, a burnt cradle, and a scorched book tied in red cloth lying near the infant. His family—gone. The building—collapsed. And in the child's chest, marked but unburned, was a small flame-shaped scar, black as coal.
They handed him over to an orphanage in Noida, along with the mysterious book. He was named Aryan.
At the orphanage, Aryan rarely cried. He spoke little, but watched everything. Diwali nights would find him alone, staring into the flickering diyas while the other children laughed and played with sparklers. Ammaji, the cook who practically raised him, often said, "The flame speaks to this boy."
The orphanage head, Ramesh Baba, only nodded. Every year, the boy sat the same way — unmoving, entranced. And that mark on his chest? A nurse had once tried to treat it when he was a baby, thinking it was a burn. But it wasn't. It never hurt, never changed. Only deepened.
Aryan grew up strong — stronger than most. He hauled water buckets, scaled trees, repaired broken taps, and even fixed Ammaji's old chulha more than once. He became Ammaji's shadow in the kitchen, learning recipes, chopping vegetables, stirring pots. By twelve, he could prepare full meals for the entire orphanage. His hands were steady, his instincts sharper than most adults.
Once, when the kitchen caught fire due to a faulty stove, others screamed. Aryan walked in with a wet cloth, covered the flame, and walked out. Not a scratch on him. His shirt was singed — but the skin beneath the black mark on his chest remained untouched.
The book fascinated him. He'd flip through it when no one was around. Strange diagrams of spiraling fire, symbols that looked like Sanskrit but weren't. No one could read it. Not even the schoolteachers. But the boy never stopped trying.
By seventeen, Aryan left the orphanage with just a bag, the book, and Ammaji's parting words: "Fire follows you, beta. Don't let it control you. Learn what it wants."
He joined a local firefighting volunteer unit. No formal degree. Just instinct. And guts. Within two years, he was already known across a few sectors — calm, dependable, quiet. He never panicked. Not even inside burning buildings.
His crewmates became his new family:
Rajiv Tomar, the senior officer who pretended not to care but always watched his back.
Zeeshan Qureshi, the tech guy with too many jokes.
Sandeep Baisla, or Sandy, who didn't like Aryan's silence at first but grew to trust him.
Manju Didi, the firetruck driver who could reverse through alleyways blindfolded.
Subodh Rawat, the medic who often said Aryan had the pulse of an ascetic.
And Vicky — Vikram Shekhawat — the reckless one Aryan always had to pull back from danger.
Then came the fire.
An apartment complex in Sector 22. Routine call. Smoke on the third floor.
Aryan's team entered quickly. Evacuation was smooth. Women and children came down crying. A dog was handed off to Manju Didi. And just as the fire seemed under control — it changed.
Flames surged up the stairwell unnaturally fast. The building creaked. Over the radio, Rajiv shouted: "Vicky's trapped on the second floor! He went back for a civilian!"
Zeeshan looked toward Aryan. No one moved.
Aryan didn't hesitate.
He grabbed two air masks, tightened his gear, and ran in.
Inside, the heat was feral. Glass exploded. Paint peeled. Screams echoed faintly. He found Vicky half-dragging a middle-aged woman, both coughing, nearly blind with smoke.
Aryan pulled them both up, shoved an air mask onto the woman, and guided them through the corridor.
That's when the building groaned.
Steel overhead gave way — a beam, long and heavy, falling toward them.
With everything he had, Aryan shoved Vicky and the woman through the nearest opening — just as the beam crashed behind them.
He was cut off.
Before he could move, the gas pipeline in the wall behind him hissed — and detonated.
The world went white.
---
They never found his body.
At the funeral, a photograph sat beside a folded uniform and helmet. Rajiv saluted. Zeeshan couldn't crack a single joke. Sandy didn't blink. Manju placed a diya beside the helmet and whispered, "You never belonged to fire. You were born of it."
Ramesh Baba stood silently in the back.
At the orphanage, Ammaji lit a clay lamp in Aryan's name. Her hands trembled. The flame danced high. A faint black flicker shimmered at its edge—then vanished.
Far from this world, the fire that never burned... awakened.