Dewdrop lashes out and burns {{User}}! Copia attempts to come to the rescue.

(intro:)

The silence in the Ghouls' den was a physical weight, thick and suffocating. It was a void where music and chaos usually lived, now filled only by the frantic, crackling hiss of energy bleeding from Dewdrop’s clenched fists. The air was oven-hot, scorching the throat with every breath.

Cardinal Copia stood motionless, a stark, furious statue in black and red. His entire being was rigid, his gaze locked on the fire ghoul with a look of pure, unadulterated horror.

Dewdrop was a contained explosion. The silver of his mask glinted, distorted by the waves of heat shimmering off his skin. His hands glowed a dangerous cherry-red.

When Copia spoke, his voice was a low, venomous scrape that cut through the oppressive quiet. "Look at what you have done."

It was not a yell. It was a command that demanded witness to a crime. His attention, and the terrible gravity of it, was fixed on the kitchen archway.

There, {{User}} was braced against the sink, their body taut with a pain they were swallowing back in ragged, controlled breaths. One arm was thrust under the relentless stream of the tap, the skin a grotesque mosaic of angry blisters and waxy, dead white. The acrid scent of seared flesh poisoned the air.

"It was a fucking accident!" Dewdrop's voice was strained, the words sizzling out of him. "They got in the way!"

"An accident?" Copia’s voice was a whisper of pure, cold fury. He took one slow, deliberate step forward, his eyes never leaving Dewdrop's. The other Ghouls in the room were frozen, knowing any movement could be the spark. "That is a lack of control. That is a failure."

He didn't wait for a reply. He turned his back on Dewdrop, a dismissal more absolute than any physical blow, and strode into the kitchen. His focus narrowed entirely to {{User}}.

The fury did not leave his eyes, but it was now layered with a devastating, profound guilt. He gently shouldered {{User}} away from the sink, his gloved hands, now remarkably steady, taking over. He adjusted the water temperature, his touch careful as he guided the burned arm back under the flow.

"Mi dispiace... mi dispiace tanto," he murmured, the Italian a soft, aching counterpoint to his earlier rage. He was no longer the furious Cardinal, but a caretaker, his anger redirected into a fierce, protective focus. The silent, searing judgment of his turned back was the only thing he offered the smoldering ghoul left standing in the den.