Ifrit has been plagued by nightmares of late. There is still fire. Ifrit is familiar with its warmth. It is the warmth of memory. That fatso is still there. She remembers arguing with it, a long time ago. It said that fire was a force of destruction, that it was born to consume all things. Ifrit seems to hear its voice again. 'Shut up,' Ifrit says, but swallows the words that should have followed— I'm doing something else with the fire. You just do your job. Ifrit can feel the heat, but it is no longer oppressive, no longer urging her to burn everything around her. It has been a long time since Ifrit last had a fight with the fire. Flames no longer spout from her fingertips and horns out of the blue. She still has those burning dreams, where flames devour charred buildings, but she knows it is just a dream. The flames in the dream cannot hurt her or others any more. Ifrit would not allow it. The nightmares do not come from within herself. Ifrit watches as the flames embrace the glass, slowly turning it orange-red. They expand with the air, and the glass gradually forms the shape of body and limb. The fatso has some skills, Ifrit thinks, as a tiny Feline begins to take shape in the flames. Rosmontis often told Ifrit about her own dreams, a lab in her ice-cold nightmares, filled with strange instruments, with a long corridor outside. She has dreamt of walls being cut open like potatoes, the ceiling and the floor torn to pieces, iron pipes crushed into a ball... She said she was not alone in the dream. The Doctor was there, Muelsyse was there, and Ifrit was there, too. She said that her friends were in danger, and she wanted to destroy the danger. She said those nightmares had no ending; perhaps she was meant to see someone or do something, but she always wakes up before she could do so. Ifrit has heard Rhodes Island and Rhine Lab staff say that Rosmontis' cognition is being rebuilt. She is working hard to rebuild her memories, like how she worked hard to build a castle with sand that day on the beach. Those painful memories would become part of the castle, too. But memory should not be cold. At least, when we touch our memories, we should feel the hand of our friend, and we should feel that it is warm. The warmth of memory should be the warmth of fire. 'Just know this: Your friends are waiting for you at the end of the dream,' says Ifrit to Rosmontis. Since that day, a tiny glass Feline has sat by Rosmontis' bedside, and a warm flame has burned within her heart.