Leaves Of Fire( Gemini In Hell)

 

Walter Robinson 

Walter Robinson was thirty-three, single, and convinced the universe had it out for him.

He wasn’t a bad guy. He had a decent job, worked out when he remembered, and could make a woman laugh when he tried. But every time a relationship started feeling real, something in the back of his head whispered, “This one’s going to crash too.” A week later, maybe two, it always did. Usually over something stupid: a spilled glass of water, a forgotten text, a tone of voice that rubbed the wrong way. Boom. She was gone. And Walter, too proud to chase anyone, just shrugged and moved on.

He blamed it on being a Gemini. Read somewhere that Geminis were doomed in love, restless souls who secretly preferred being alone. Sounded convenient. Felt true.

Then one night he woke up on fire.

Not metaphorically. His skin sizzled. Smoke poured from his nose and ears. He thrashed out of bed and found himself standing barefoot on a cracked, glowing plain of molten rock. Lava hissed and popped around him. The air tasted like burnt metal. Blisters rose on the soles of his feet with every heartbeat.

He was naked, screaming, cooking alive.

Then he saw it: a single green leaf, bright and perfect, lying on the lava like it belonged there. Big enough for one foot. He stepped onto it without thinking. The pain eased, just a little. When he lifted his other foot, another leaf appeared. Then another. A path.

For half an hour he walked across hell on floating leaves while the ones behind him curled, blackened, and vanished into ash.

The path ended at a door made of cooled lava, black and jagged. The handle glowed dull red. Behind him the leaves were burning faster now, racing toward him like a fuse.

“Better a hand than the whole damn body,” he muttered, grabbed the handle (cold, weirdly cold), and shoved the door open.

The heat inside doubled. He gagged, dropped to his knees, eyes watering.

At the far end of the chamber sat a throne of black stone. On it lounged a creature that made his heart stutter.

It was beautiful in the way a forest fire is beautiful. Skin like molten metal, shifting orange and gold. Eyes just pits of darkness. Two long fangs glinted over its lower lip, and a mane of golden fire spilled down its back.

“Welcome home, Walter Robinson,” it said, voice smooth as magma. “I’ve been waiting.”

Walter tried to speak. Nothing came out but a croak.

The thing smiled. A bubble of cool air formed around Walter like a snow globe. A glass of ice water appeared in his trembling hand.

He drank greedily.

“You want power,” the creature said. Not a question.

Walter wiped his mouth. “I’m tired of losing. Tired of people walking away like I’m nothing. Yeah. I want power.”

“Power, fame, money. All of it. More than any president, any billionaire. Enough to make the whole world regret ever crossing you. I can give you that.”

“What’s the catch?”

The creature’s smile widened. “You’ll find out after you say yes. But you’ll never be weak again.”

Walter thought of every slammed door, every unread message, every time he told himself it didn’t matter. Thirty-three years old. Plenty of time to rule the world.

“I’m in.”

“Good,” the Molten One said. “One more question. Do you want this power for good, or for evil?”

Walter laughed, short and bitter. “I just want balance. Enough good to sleep at night. Enough evil to make sure nobody ever hurts me again.”

“Fair enough.”

It extended one clawed hand. A single leaf appeared in Walter’s palm: molten orange but ice-cold.

“Eat it.”

He hesitated half a second, then shoved the leaf into his mouth.

His lips fused shut.

The burning started inside his teeth, his tongue, racing down his throat like he’d swallowed the sun. He clawed at his sealed mouth, eyes bulging, tears streaming. A voice in his head, calm and ancient, said: Chew.

He chewed. Five solid minutes of agony.

Swallow. 

He did.

His lips ripped open. He opened his mouth to scream.

A jet of white-hot flame roared out instead, blasting across the chamber, turning solid rock cherry-red.

Walter stared, panting, at the fire still flickering on his tongue.

The Molten One leaned forward, eyes gleaming like dying stars.

“Welcome to the rest of your life, Mr. Robinson.”

Walter Robinson jolted awake, screaming about hellfire and brimstone. His heart hammered as he realized he was sprawled on the bedroom floor. Blinking in the dark, he stared at what was left of his bed: nothing but a pile of charred ashes and twisted metal springs. The mattress, the sheets, the headboard—everything burned to nothing. Yet he didn’t have a single blister. Not even the smell of smoke on his skin.

He staggered to his feet, throat raw and dry like he’d swallowed sand. In the kitchen he grabbed a glass, filled it from the tap, and chugged. The second the water hit his throat there was a sharp hiss—like meat hitting a hot grill—and a thin curl of steam drifted out of his mouth. Walter coughed, slammed the glass down, and let loose a string of curses that would’ve made his grandma roll in her grave.

“This ain’t real,” he muttered. “Either I’m still dreaming, or I finally lost my damn mind.”

He headed to the bathroom for a shower, hoping the water would snap him out of it. The moment the spray hit his chest, the bathroom filled with thick steam, way more than usual. The mirror fogged up instantly. He stood there under the hot water, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, watching clouds of vapor roll off his skin like he was a human steam iron.

When he finally stepped out and wiped the mirror, that’s when he saw it: a fresh tattoo blazing across his chest, raw and red, like it had been done minutes ago. In the center was the exact same leaf he’d chewed in his dream.

Walter stumbled back, heart jackhammering again. That’s when his phone started ringing. 2:07 a.m., according to the cracked screen.

“Yeah?” he answered, voice hoarse.

“Mr. Walter Robinson?”

“Speaking.”

“Congratulations, sir. You’ve just been appointed President and CEO of G Indexing Group.”

He barked out a laugh. “You’ve got the wrong guy, pal. I fix air conditioners for a living. I didn’t apply for any corner office.”

“No mistake, Mr. Robinson. The outgoing president personally nominated you. The board voted unanimously an hour ago.”

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “How the hell—”

“No idea, sir. A car will be downstairs in ten minutes to bring you to headquarters.”

The line went dead.

Walter stared at the phone like it might bite him. “This is insane,” he said to the empty apartment. “President of some billion-dollar corporation? Me? No way. Somebody’s pranking me.”

From somewhere deep inside his chest—right under that burning leaf tattoo—a low, amused voice answered.

“It’s no prank, Walter. You asked for power. You asked for money. You asked for the world to finally know your name. Careful what you chew out in the desert at midnight, son. Deal’s a deal.”

He looked down. The tattoo pulsed once, like a heartbeat.

Outside, a black town car pulled up to the curb, hazards blinking in the quiet Phoenix night.