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  • It's Yana's fifth time watching Pulp Fiction, sitting alone in the Harlem Rouge's theatre as the 35mm print plays out on the screen. Those past few hours have been simply too much for her; one terrible disaster after another. All she wants is to be left alone. Hit the pause button in life and let her anxiety-ridden senses simmer back down. As she watches Vincent Vega on-screen, preparing to jab that adrenaline-filled syringe into Mia's ribcage, she takes another sip from the water bottle, while laughing her ass off from the scene's awkward tension.

    It's a little like how Howard Hughes would cosher himself up in the screening room, re-watching those kiss scenes while abiding by a strict diet of chocolate bars, chicken and milk. Well, not exactly to that degree of eccentricity, but if you'd asked her, she could certainly relate with the need for luxurious solitude.

    Then her thoughts flutter over to Ry. Poor Ry, he's so heartbroken. Out of the blue, his girlfriend had just left him - saying that she no longer has any feelings in her heart anymore. Sometimes, girls just do that; their affections are fickle and wane on the turn of a dime. But she isn't in any mood to offer him any consolation. Maybe later.

    Little does she know, the aperture gate hasn't been cleaned for a long while. Angel had ran off back to Monterrey down in Mexico, and there hasn't been any business funds to hire a new projectionist, so she had to splice all the reels together (there's no one to do a changeover) for a hassle-free viewing experience. Those annoying squiggly hairlines on the film seem to have multiplied to the point that she cannot ignore it.

    This is what results in the film reel burning. The audio winds down, just as Mia bursts up from her coma, and the jammed film burns out into a pure white void -- Yana catches whiff of the chemically-tinged smoke. Looking up and behind, the fire bursts outward in a glass-popping explosion, as the other film reels are consumed, fuelling the flames into an orgiastic fervour.

    Yana coughs, emerging out into the foyer. When she yanks down on the fire alarm's handle, the building's alarms screech, but the sprinklers just putter out a mere splash of water.. tapering out into last, whimpering drips that only serve to add an element of steam to the mix. It's silly; she would have had the sprinkler systems re-fitted next week, and it was quite easy pulling a fast one during the last building inspection.

    Everyone flees the Harlem Rouge, in droves pouring out the entrance gates.

    Everyone except Ry.

    As she eyeballs the crowd looking for him, the Harlem Rouge which she'd seen built up from the foundations of the theatre hall is under a vile, fiery haze which sets the streets alight in brilliant hues. There's so much chaos, and the distant fire sirens is a backdrop to the panicked screams of the Rouge's patrons and staff.

    But nonetheless, Yana finds him. She embraces him, holding him dear like a doting parent. "Oh Ry..! Thank God!" Losing a building is one thing, but to lose someone would be a sin too unforgivable and too maddening for her to bear.