Yet he still couldn't quite give up the ludicrous hope that he had a chance to truly win – to survive. So, Dane carefully set the photo on the edge of the sink, then filled the sink with water. He would need to douse the flames after The Spot was gone.

When at last it had filled, he turned off the faucet, flicked open the zippo, and lit the picture on fire. As it went up in flames, Ellen vanished from her black and white prison.

The last thing Dane saw was the image of his old fling, Ellen Veers, reflected in the sink above the mirror. Her hair was ablaze snapping as if being pulled by hurricane force winds. Behind her the silhouettes of other women, flickered in the firelight, but could not be clearly discerned. Worst of all was the image beside her, where there stood a hideous blackened mass, covered in sweat, blood and pus. As Dane realized that he was this putrid thing, he wept his final tears.

"You're dead," he whispered. "I made sure of it."

"Shhh..." Ellen intoned, a finger to her lips. "Quiet, my love."

Then Dane screamed as he burst into flames. Moments later the smoldering ashes of the photo fell into the sink.

***

When Jason Dwyer, a fifth class firefighter of the FDNY, found the body, it had been charred beyond recognition, bits of cotton burnt into the flesh. This was going to be a shit job and everyone there knew it. No one could locate the ignition point. It was as if the flames sparked simultaneously throughout the loft, and weirder yet, they then doused themselves. In his nine years of service, Jason hadn't a seen a thing like it. Fires didn't put themselves out, and yet, this one had; although not before taking out the whole apartment.

As Jason looked at the body, he couldn't help but to think that maybe this poor bastard was lucky. There was a mass of twisted tissue and muscle over his left side that he suspected was there before the fire. The man was obviously deformed and maybe painfully so. Perhaps the fire had been a mercy.

He kicked at the soot, and wandered back out into what once was the master bedroom, still kicking up the charred wood and remnants of furniture. What did one do at a fire that wasn't a fire? How did you report that one?

'Yeah, about that fire so, it put itself out, sir.' He could imagine that going over well.

"Hey Dwyer, get your ass moving!" The voice was his Lieutenant. He, like everyone else, knew there was no job for them here.

Jason turned to leave, but as he did, his eyes caught on a manila envelope sticking out from beneath a burnt picture frame. Normally, it would have meant nothing to him, but in this weird ass burn, that envelope was the only thing unscathed. He picked it up and slipped its contents out. Inside was a small stack of black and white photos each with a name and date written on the back.

Maria Diller, January 2010. Alicia Watson, June 2009. Suzie Meyers, July 2008. Christina Morgan, August 2007. Ellen Veers, July 2006. Lily Alden, June 2005.

Jason dropped the photos to the floor and doubled over, flinging his face mask and helmet down as he did. He felt a great need to retch. More, he knew deep down, this man had deserved to die. Each photo depicted a woman, all similar in appearance with small lithe, builds and deep thick hair; and each of them was staring up at the camera, pleading, disfigured, bloodied, and scarred. Some of the wounds could have been from fire, some by acid, some by instruments that Jason never wanted to imagine.

Worst of all, there was a plea in the eyes of each girl, a truth revealed in the desperation of their dying moments. Something hideous had been captured in these photos – a timeless depiction of grief and fear that could only be captured at the moment of death – and try as he might, Jason knew then that the images would never leave him. Those pleading eyes would haunt him the rest of his life, immortalized in black and white.