"Chirp!"
The sharp sound pierced straight into John Markus's ears like a needle. He froze, breath stuttering, heart pounding in his chest. The moment he witnessed Little Fire's transformation left him stunned, his whole body rigid.
He forced himself to suck in a deep breath. Hot smoke filled his lungs, thick with the stench of charred coal. He shut his eyes for a brief second to steady himself, then opened them again, gaze locked on the tiny creature hopping in front of him.
The pale yellow glow of the fluorescent light revealed every change.
Little Fire's wings were no longer stubby like a chicken's. They stretched wide, nearly one and a half times longer than before, their outer feathers tough and gleaming like metal. Its beak curved, sharp enough to throw back a blinding glint when the light brushed over it.
John Markus swallowed hard. But his eyes were pulled straight to the top of its head.
Before, it was just a scruffy tuft of red feathers, harmless as singed threads. Now, a real flame burned there. A tiny blaze, bright orange-red, flickering like a just-struck match. Sparks snapped softly, giving off a faint burnt smell.
"Wait a sec…" John Markus muttered. Something clicked.
He stepped back half a pace to take in the whole body. His chest tightened.
That plump, round ball of fluff that used to wobble around the house was gone. In its place stood a lean, slender frame, solid muscles hidden beneath short feathers. Its stance steady, its hops firm, the whole aura screaming of a tiny warrior in the shape of a chicken.
John Markus went still. His mind lit up.
The Phoenix, that legendary firebird, when resurrected and evolving, would rebuild its body from scratch. The process devoured a terrifying amount of energy, and its fatal weakness was always that moment of shortage. Nature's way of forcing balance.
But Little Fire was different.
He recalled every meal. Sometimes leftover rice at the end of the day. Sometimes a rushed fast-food box. Sometimes scraping up the last coins of the month to buy meat, just to "fatten it up." He used to laugh seeing it gulp down a huge bowl of rice, then plop down like a ball. Who would've thought all that fat had been its savings account for leveling up its life?
The realization sent a shiver through him. A Phoenix should've collapsed from depletion, but Little Fire had consumed all that fat to rebuild itself. He had accidentally erased their natural weakness.
The corner of his mouth twitched. He let out a shaky laugh, trembling with excitement. "A perfect cheat code."
Right then, Little Fire leapt up, wings flapping hard, chirping rapid-fire. The flame on its head blazed bright, casting a golden-orange glow all over the room. Its cheerful cries rang out like a victory anthem.
Through their shared link, John Markus felt its joy spilling over. It puffed with pride, showing off, as if screaming, "Look at me! I'm stronger now!"
It bounced circles around him, tiny feet tapping the wooden floor with a clatter, its fire blazing like a lantern.
John Markus smiled, his chest swelling with surprise and pride. But then his eyes faltered.
That body…
Gone was the chubby cuteness that made him laugh every time he hugged it. Now it was lean, fire flickering on its head, hopping in the middle of the room. And in a flash, unbidden, one thought crossed his mind, quick as lightning but clear as day: "It… looks kind of ugly."
The excitement inside Little Fire snuffed out in an instant.
The flame on its head trembled, shrinking small, its glow fading. Its wide bright eyes dulled, clouded over. Through the link, John Markus felt the raw wound, the choking disappointment flooding through.
"Chirp…" The weak sound slipped out, trembling, almost accusing.
John Markus froze. Even that fleeting thought couldn't hide from their bond. It had felt everything.
Little Fire looked down at its new body, wings quivering shut. Its claws scraped the floor, screeching harshly. In a panic, it suddenly spun and dashed toward the inner room.
"Little Fire, wait!" John Markus called, voice cracking.
The patter of tiny feet echoed, then stopped abruptly in front of the tall mirror in the corner. John Markus rushed after, hearing its quick, ragged breaths filling the silence.
A wretched "Chirp!" tore the air.
When John Markus reached it, Little Fire stood frozen before the mirror. Reflected back was a strange creature: half chicken, half fire, a sturdy but bare frame, a weak little flame flickering on its head. Its eyes were wide, brimming with terror and shock at its own image.
John Markus quickly raised a hand, meaning to comfort. But Little Fire whipped around and dove straight into its nest under the bed.
That familiar nest, woven from scraps of cloth, became its refuge. It burrowed deep, curling into a tiny ball. The flame on its head dwindled, weak as a dying candle. No chirps, no hops, just a trembling shadow in the dark corner.
The room turned suffocatingly quiet. The ceiling fan creaked above. The yellow light stretched John Markus's shadow long across the floor, spilling over the nest, covering Little Fire curled inside.
John Markus stood still, arms hanging limp. In his chest, joy hadn't even faded before pain rushed in. He never thought a careless flash of thought could crush Little Fire so completely.