Garfield Lynns is pure pyromania strapped to a jetpack. Once a failed stuntman, now a scarred arsonist, he takes to Gotham’s skies as Firefly, raining infernos in relentless, unbroken assaults captured like one endless take. Fire stations ignite, precincts collapse, bridges crumble into rivers of flame, and entire neighborhoods vanish beneath his firestorms. Each dive, each explosion, each shriek of steel melting into ash builds into a suffocating crescendo — and Lynns exults in it. Every flame is ecstasy, every scream his chorus, every blaze a high he cannot resist. As the city burns alive, Firefly soars higher, laughing, euphoric, feeding on the very terror and agony he creates. By the time Gotham is swallowed whole by fire, its skyline collapsing into a sea of glowing ruin, he isn’t just burning the city — he’s reveling in it, consumed by the joy of watching the world turn to ash beneath him.
