“Gracias, Señor, gracias—” She turned and ran, holding her child tightly; she hadn’t even made it to the first step before Alex was racing into the smoking cathedral. Several of the pews were crackling with flames; bodies lay scattered like abandoned toys, surrounded by hymn books and debris. The rioters were everywhere – pulling statues over, smashing paintings into splinters, shooting at the stone columns that marched down the centre aisle. With a cheer, a gang threw a pew through a stained-glass window; it crumpled into brightly-coloured fragments.

Alex drew his gun and made his way, coughing, to the front, checking out every body that he passed – terrified that one would be Willow, her green eyes empty and unseeing. Oh god, Willow, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything I said – please, just be alive, we’ll work it out, I promise—

In front of the altar, near the charred and crumpled balustrade, he found Willow’s phone lying on the floor, its screen cracked. He gripped it hard as he looked wildly around him. Had she dropped the phone while escaping? Or had she been so close to this bomb that there was barely anything left of her? He shoved the thought away. The office; maybe they’d searched the office – he ran towards it, weaving past the sprawled, lifeless bodies.

The office door had been shot open by rioters. Suddenly he was in a smoke-filled tunnel. He plunged forward, eyes streaming as he held his arm over his face.

“Willow!” he called in a strangled voice. “Willow, are you in here?” A bonfire crackled halfway down the corridor: oil paintings warping and twisting. He took a running jump and got past it somehow; half-fell as he landed and kept going. When he reached the office door more smoke was pouring out – the reception area and inner offices were all in flames, furniture lying on its side, files scattered.

“Willow!” he got out again. He searched the smoky den the best he could, crouching low and feeling his way around the floor. The heat was a solid wall; the smoke was in his throat, up his nose – fogging his brain, making it hard to think. A splintering crash came as the desk collapsed. Sparks flew, sizzling at his exposed hands and cheeks.

“Alex!” Kara had appeared, holding someone’s jacket over her face as she tugged at his arm; her eyes looked like red, burning coals. Her shouts were muffled. “We’ve got to get out of here—”

“No!” he choked out. “Willow—”

“She’s not here! Do you want to die, you idiot?”