Revenge

[自己的]
The Empty Fire
Clara struck the match. Its small flame shook in her hand as she stood in the old, crumbling theater. Five years ago, her father had died here during a play when a broken chandelier fell on him. The theater owner, Mr. Holloway, had called it an "accident," but Clara knew he’d ignored safety rules to save money.
She poured gasoline across the dusty stage, remembering her father’s laughter echoing in this place. Outside, a security guard’s flashlight swept the alley. Clara hid behind a broken statue until the guard left, muttering about raccoons.
When she threw the match, flames exploded like angry golden beasts. They swallowed the curtains and wooden seats. Clara ran outside, watching firelight reflect on the hospital windows across the street. Her phone buzzed—a news headline: "Theater owner collapses while watching fire destroy his family’s legacy."
Rain began to fall as she walked away. She thought she’d feel victorious, but her father’s last words haunted her: "Revenge isn’t a good encore, my star." The fire had burned away her anger, leaving only heavy emptiness. She realized too late—she hadn’t punished Holloway. She’d become just like him.

[DeepSeek]
The Weight of Ashes
The match hissed to life in Clara’s trembling hand, its flame painting jagged shadows across the abandoned theater’s decaying walls. She stared at the faded playbill still clinging to the lobby bulletin board—"A Midsummer Night’s Dream, August 2019"—its edges curled like dead leaves. Five years ago tonight, laughter had ricocheted off these moldering velvet seats. Five years ago, the chandelier above her had shattered her father’s skull during Act III, Scene II.
“Accident,” they’d called it.
Her palm found the cold metal gas canister. The theater owner’s words slithered through her memory as she unscrewed the cap: “These old buildings… structural decay… tragic, really.” The gasoline’s acrid stench burned her nostrils. She imagined Marcus Holloway’s face when he’d see his precious family legacy reduced to cinders—the same way he’d watched her father’s coffin vanish into the crematorium flames without blinking.
Footsteps echoed in the alley. Clara froze. A security guard’s flashlight beam sliced through the boarded-up windows. She pressed herself against Puck’s crumbling plaster statue, its leering grin chipped but still mocking. The guard muttered into his radio: “Probably just raccoons again.”
When silence returned, Clara moved like liquid shadow. Gasoline pooled across the stage where her father had delivered Oberon’s final monologue with his trademark booming vibrato. She paused at the trapdoor—the one he’d fallen through when the faulty mechanism gave way. Holloway Theaters LLC had cut every safety corner until the very boards became weapons.
The match arced through the dark.
Flames erupted with a hungry roar, consuming moth-eaten curtains in sapphire-edged tongues. Clara watched through the broken box office window as firelight danced across Holloway’s bronze dedication plaque: “For generations of dreamers.” Heat blistered her cheeks, but she didn’t move until sirens wailed in the distance.
Three blocks away, her phone buzzed. A news alert: “Historic theater ablaze—owner hospitalized after apparent heart attack at scene.” The accompanying photo showed Marcus Holloway clutching his chest as orange flames devoured his life’s work behind him.
Clara dropped her phone into the storm drain. Rain began falling as she walked past the hospital, its windows glowing like rows of judgmental eyes. She’d expected triumph. Instead, her father’s last words coiled around her throat like smoke: “No encore worth this, starling.”
The downpour couldn’t wash away the realization clinging to her skin—she’d become the tragedy.