The piercing scream of sirens echoed through the snow-capped streets of Crans-Montana, Switzerland, as the clock struck past midnight on New Year’s Day 2026. What should have been a night of jubilant celebration at Le Constellation bar—a trendy hotspot nestled in the heart of the upscale ski resort—turned into a scene of unimaginable horror. Flames erupted in the basement, devouring everything in their path with ferocious speed. Forty young lives were extinguished in the blaze, trapped in a deadly bottleneck on a narrow staircase as panic and smoke choked the air. Among the survivors, 18-year-old Roze emerged from the ashes, her body ravaged by third-degree burns, her mind now a battlefield of relentless nightmares. After 18 grueling days in a medically induced coma, she awoke in a Belgian hospital bed, only to find that the fire’s terror refuses to release its grip. Her story, one of survival against all odds, is a stark reminder of how a single spark can ignite catastrophe, leaving scars that time may never fully heal.

Crans-Montana, perched in the Swiss Alps, is synonymous with luxury and leisure. Ski slopes glisten under the winter sun by day, while by night, its bars and clubs pulse with energy, drawing tourists and locals alike. Le Constellation, owned by French nationals Jacques Moretti, 49, and his wife Jessica Moretti, 40, was no exception. The venue, known for its vibrant atmosphere and high-end clientele, had transformed its basement into a festive underworld for New Year’s Eve. Dimly lit with neon accents, thumping bass from DJ sets, and a crowd of revelers dressed in glittering outfits, it promised an unforgettable start to 2026. But the promise shattered when sparklers—innocent party props affixed to champagne bottles—became instruments of destruction.

According to preliminary investigations, the fire ignited around 1:30 a.m. on January 1. Waitresses, encouraged by the owners to amp up the excitement, donned costumes like crash helmets and Guy Fawkes masks. One particularly dramatic delivery involved a waitress perched on a barman’s shoulders, parading multiple bottles of fizzing champagne laced with sparklers through the throng of cheering guests. The sparks flew high, catching the ceiling’s flammable cladding—a material meant for decoration but woefully inadequate for fire safety. In seconds, a flash-over occurred: a rapid ignition where heat and flames spread explosively across the room. The basement, packed with over 100 people, became a furnace. Smoke billowed thick and black, disorienting everyone inside. The only exit—a single, narrow staircase—turned into a fatal choke point as desperate partygoers shoved and trampled in a bid for survival.

The death toll climbed to 40, making it one of Switzerland’s deadliest nightclub fires in decades. Victims, mostly young adults in their late teens and early 20s, hailed from across Europe, including locals, tourists from France, Belgium, and beyond. Autopsies revealed many succumbed to smoke inhalation rather than burns, their lungs filled with toxic fumes as they clawed for air. Rescuers described pulling bodies from the wreckage, some still clutching phones or champagne glasses, frozen in the final moments of terror. The Swiss authorities launched a full-scale probe, scrutinizing building codes, fire permits, and the venue’s history of safety inspections. Questions swirled: How could such a popular spot operate without adequate fire suppression systems? Why was the basement overcrowded beyond capacity? The Morettis, placed under judicial supervision, faced intense scrutiny, their leaked police interviews revealing a desperate attempt to shift blame.

Into this inferno stepped Roze, an 18-year-old Belgian teen whose night out was meant to be a simple gig. Roze and her best friend Nouran, also 18, weren’t typical partygoers that evening. They had been hired by Jessica Moretti to capture promotional content—photos and videos of the festivities to boost the bar’s social media presence. Arriving around 1:15 a.m., the pair descended into the basement, cameras at the ready. The room was alive: laughter echoed off the walls, glasses clinked, and the air hummed with anticipation. Roze began snapping shots of the vibrant scene—the colorful costumes, the bubbling champagne, the euphoric faces illuminated by phone screens.

But joy turned to dread in an instant. “I remember turning my head and suddenly seeing fire on the ceiling,” Roze recounted in her first interview since waking, speaking to the Belgian newspaper Het Laatste Nieuws from her hospital bed. The flames spread like wildfire, leaping from the cladding to decorations and furniture. Chaos erupted. Roze’s instincts kicked in; she bolted for the stairs, screaming “Fire! Fire!” over the din of music and shouts. In the pandemonium, she lost sight of Nouran. People surged toward the exit, bodies pressing together in a human crush. Roze fell amid the stampede, her skin searing as flames licked closer. Miraculously, she clambered up and escaped through a shattered window, gasping the cold mountain air outside.

Even in her pain, Roze’s heroism shone. She turned back to the entrance, helping to move lifeless bodies blocking the way, desperate to save others. Finally, she spotted Nouran emerging from the smoke, her friend horribly injured and writhing in agony. Roze’s hands, already blistered and raw from the heat, were too damaged to dial for help. She flagged down a passing driver, begging them to call Nouran’s mother. The two girls were rushed to a hospital in nearby Sion, where doctors assessed the extent of their wounds. For Roze, it was the last memory before darkness enveloped her. “From then on, I don’t remember anything,” she said.

Roze was airlifted to the University Hospital of Liège in Belgium, a facility renowned for its burn unit. There, specialists placed her in a medically induced coma to manage the excruciating pain and allow her body to heal. Third-degree burns covered significant portions of her skin, penetrating deep into tissue and destroying nerves. Such injuries require painstaking treatment: debridement to remove dead flesh, skin grafts from donor sites or synthetic materials, and multiple surgeries to restore function. Roze underwent several operations during her coma, her vital signs monitored around the clock as machines breathed for her.

Eighteen days later, on January 19, doctors gradually brought her back to consciousness. The awakening was bittersweet. Physically, Roze faced a long road: her hands, severely burned, are immobile, wrapped in bandages and splints. “In the worst case, it will take two years before I can use my hands again,” she confided. Simple acts of independence—eating, drinking, even using the bathroom—now require her parents’ assistance. “Mom and Dad have to feed me and give me drinks; I can’t even go to the toilet by myself,” she admitted, her voice laced with frustration and vulnerability. Mobility is limited; she spends hours in physical therapy, relearning movements while battling the constant itch and tightness of healing scars.

But the physical scars pale compared to the psychological ones. Nightmares plague Roze’s sleep, vivid replays of the fire that jerk her awake in cold sweats. “I’m afraid to fall asleep alone,” she told Het Laatste Nieuws. “Afraid because I know the nightmares will come again.” The dreams are relentless: flames encroaching, screams piercing the dark, the acrid smell of smoke choking her lungs. She thinks constantly of the 40 who didn’t make it—friends, strangers, young lives snuffed out in the same hell she escaped. “Of course, I’m glad to be alive. But I also think about the dead very often – and that hurts,” she said, her words a poignant mix of gratitude and survivor’s guilt.

Nouran’s fate weighs heaviest on Roze. Her friend remains in a coma at the same hospital, her body covered in 80 percent burns—a prognosis that doctors describe as critical. “I haven’t been able to speak to her yet; we don’t know how she’ll survive,” Roze shared, her concern evident. Nouran’s family maintains a vigil by her bedside, hoping for a miracle similar to Roze’s. The two girls, inseparable since childhood, now share a bond forged in tragedy. Roze’s parents have become pillars for both families, shuttling between rooms and offering support amid the sterile hum of hospital machines.

As Roze heals, the blame game intensifies. Jacques and Jessica Moretti, detained briefly before being released under supervision, have pointed fingers at a deceased waitress, Cyane Panine, 24. Leaked interrogation transcripts, obtained by Le Parisien, reveal the couple’s repeated denials: “It’s not us, it’s the others.” They claim Cyane, who perished in the fire, ignited the sparklers irresponsibly and blocked an escape route. But Cyane’s grieving parents, Jerome and Astrid Panine, vehemently defend their daughter. “She was just following instructions from Jessica to ‘get the atmosphere going,’” Astrid said. “She trusted people without the slightest suspicion. She paid the ultimate price for this with her life.” Cyane, remembered as vibrant and trusting, was one of many staff members caught in the blaze, her death adding to the chorus of calls for accountability.

The investigation, led by Swiss prosecutors, delves deeper. Experts examine the bar’s construction: the flammable ceiling materials, absent sprinklers, and overcrowded layout. Comparisons to past disasters—like the 2003 Station nightclub fire in Rhode Island, USA, which killed 100 due to pyrotechnics, or the 2015 Colectiv club fire in Romania that claimed 64—highlight recurring failures in nightlife safety. In Switzerland, known for stringent regulations, this incident exposes gaps: Le Constellation reportedly passed inspections, yet lacked emergency exits suitable for a basement venue. Advocacy groups push for reforms, including mandatory fire drills, better crowd control, and bans on indoor pyrotechnics.

Roze’s story resonates globally, drawing messages of support from survivors of similar tragedies. Social media campaigns under #JusticeForCransMontana amplify demands for truth, while fundraisers aid victims’ families and medical costs. Psychologists note that post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is common in such cases, with symptoms like flashbacks, anxiety, and insomnia persisting for years. Roze’s therapy includes counseling sessions, where she processes the guilt of survival and rebuilds her sense of self.

Yet amid the darkness, glimmers of hope emerge. Roze’s resilience shines through her determination to recover, dreaming of one day holding a camera again. Her parents praise her strength: “She’s our fighter,” they say. Nouran’s faint progress—stable vitals—fuels optimism. As winter lingers in the Alps, the fire’s embers may have cooled, but its impact burns on.

In Crans-Montana, memorials dot the streets: candles, flowers, photos of the lost. Roze, from her hospital room, vows to honor them. “I’ll never forget,” she says. Her awakening is not just from coma, but to a world forever changed—a testament to human fragility and the unyielding will to endure.