"Oh shit!"

"Damn right, oh shit!" Mute yells back. "Quick throw some dirt on it!" He's currently fighting a flaming stool, slapping some sense into the fire with his shirt.

You run to the furthest, bent-girdle wall, and start digging out dirt with your hands. The effort is a nice distraction from Mute's shirtless body. He's not exactly a muscle man, but a slim, lean machine. His biceps bulging, glistening with sweat as he whips his shirt, punishing the fire. What a bad fire it is. It's been a bad, bad fire. Why, sugar, If you hadn't stopped me, my fire would have licked that log completely clean. Guess you've got to punish me now, da--

"Shiva! Dirt!" Mute yells, exasperated. "Now, please!" With a yelp, he let's go of his shirt - also on fire - waving his hand frantically in an effort to cool it down.

The desk is also on fire now. That makes three things on fire. Generally speaking, there's way more fire happening right now than anyone should be comfortable with at any given moment.

You throw a pile of dirt on...