The end of the world? ...

London, September 1666, pre-dawn darkness fractured by orange glow. A young woman in a linen nightdress getting out of her bed, bare feet on floorboards already warm from below. The room filling with smoke curling through floor cracks. Through the leaded glass window, Pudding Lane blazes—timber houses become torches, thatched roofs shedding embers into a sky the color of fresh blood. The Thames glitters with reflected fire. St. Paul's visible in the distance, not yet consumed. Her hair unpinned, face streaked with soot and tears. The Great Fire has found her house. Wooden beams groan. Somewhere below, a neighbor screams about the wind changing. She stares at the destruction she cannot outrun, nightdress hem already singed. Baroque chaos, apocalyptic light, the end of the medieval city written in flame.