Crans-Montana, Switzerland — In the snow-dusted streets of this luxurious Alpine resort, the air still carries the faint, acrid scent of smoke weeks after the flames devoured Le Constellation bar in the early hours of January 1, 2026. What began as a jubilant New Year’s Eve celebration—bass thumping, champagne popping, teenagers and young adults dancing shoulder-to-shoulder—ended in one of Switzerland’s worst peacetime disasters: 40 lives lost, 116 injured, many with life-altering burns. Among the dead were two teenage sisters who perished holding each other, a beloved French DJ spinning his final set, aspiring footballers, international students, and ordinary young people whose only crime was wanting to welcome the new year with friends.

The tragedy at Le Constellation has shaken Switzerland to its core, prompting national mourning, furious demands for accountability, and a soul-searching examination of safety standards in the country’s celebrated après-ski scene. As the first bodies are repatriated to grieving families across Europe, the stories emerging from the ashes are heartbreaking, heroic, and infuriating in equal measure.

Alicia and Diana Gunst, Swiss nationals aged 15 and 14, were inseparable. Friends describe them as bright, adventurous girls who loved skiing, music, and each other fiercely. On New Year’s Eve, they convinced their parents to let them attend the party at Le Constellation, a popular basement venue known for its intimate vibe and resident DJ sets. “They were so excited,” their mother, Marianne Gunst, told reporters outside the family home in Sion. “They promised to stay together, to text every hour. They kept that promise—they died side by side.”

Forensic teams later confirmed the sisters were found in the narrow stairwell leading from the basement dance floor to the street-level exit, arms entwined in a final embrace. Investigators believe they were among the 34 victims trapped in that confined space when the fire escalated into a flashover—a sudden, explosive ignition that turned the room into an inferno within seconds. The stairwell, critics now allege, had been partially narrowed by unauthorized modifications, including partitions installed without permits. Those structural changes, combined with highly flammable acoustic foam on the ceiling, created a perfect trap.

The DJ whose beats had filled the room moments earlier was Matéo Lesguer, a 23-year-old French music producer from Angers better known by his stage name Neoshy. Matéo had been working seasonally at Le Constellation since 2023, using the gigs to pay off student loans while building his career in deep house and dreamy electronic music. His duo partner, Florian, posted a gut-wrenching tribute on Instagram: “Today I received confirmation that Mateo Lesguer, my best friend, died in the fire in Crans-Montana. He was at the decks, doing what he loved, when everything changed. He never saw it coming.”

Witnesses recall Matéo smiling behind the console as midnight approached, waving to the crowd during a drop that sent the packed basement into euphoria. When the first sparks appeared—reportedly from sparklers affixed to champagne bottles held aloft by waitstaff too close to the ceiling—Matéo reportedly kept playing for a few more seconds, perhaps thinking it was part of the show. By the time flames licked the foam panels, it was too late. He perished near his equipment, one of several staff members who died trying to help others escape.

The fire’s suspected origin is as mundane as it is devastating: interior pyrotechnics—sparklers on bottles—ignited sound-absorbing foam installed on the ceiling and walls. The material, intended to dampen noise in the subterranean space, proved lethally flammable once ignited. Within moments, thick black smoke filled the room, reducing visibility to zero and triggering panic. Many victims succumbed to asphyxiation rather than burns; toxicology reports indicate carbon monoxide poisoning claimed dozens before the flames reached them.

Survivors’ accounts paint scenes of unimaginable horror and quiet heroism. A 19-year-old Swiss man, who asked to remain anonymous, described re-entering the smoke-filled stairwell twice to drag out severely burned friends. “I couldn’t breathe,” he told Swiss television. “My lungs were on fire, but I heard screaming. I went back in. My brother is still in a coma from the smoke—he may never wake up.” Local businesses near the bar opened their doors, using curtains and blankets to warm shock victims exposed to sub-zero temperatures after escaping the heat.

Crans-Montana, a glittering resort favored by the wealthy and famous, suddenly became a place of pilgrimage. Hundreds gathered for a silent march days after the blaze, laying flowers, candles, and handwritten notes outside the charred entrance to Le Constellation. One placard read simply: “They came to dance. They left as angels.” Another: “Never again.”

As identification efforts concluded by January 4, police released the grim statistics: victims ranged from 14 to 39 years old, with 26 teenagers among the dead. Nationalities spanned 19 countries, reflecting the international draw of Swiss ski resorts during holiday season. Six Swiss teenage girls aged 14–18 were among the first identified; a 15-year-old girl holding French, Israeli, and British citizenship—Charlotte Niddam, educated at schools in Hertfordshire and north-west London—was confirmed dead. Italian teenagers Achille Barosi and Chiara Costanzo, both 16, were buried in Milan amid thousands of mourners. Swiss 16-year-old Arthur Brodard’s mother had searched frantically for days before learning he was among the fatalities.

The repatriation of remains has brought a measure of closure to shattered families, but also fresh waves of grief. Coffins draped in national flags arrived at airports in France, Italy, Romania, Turkey, and beyond, escorted by honor guards. In Angers, Matéo Lesguer’s funeral drew hundreds of fellow DJs, producers, and fans who played his tracks in tribute. “He was coming home after this season,” his mother said. “He wanted to finish paying his loans and start his own label. He never got the chance.”

Anger now simmers alongside sorrow. Swiss prosecutors detained Jacques Moretti, one of Le Constellation’s co-owners, citing flight risk. His wife, Jessica Moretti, issued a tearful public apology, saying her thoughts were with the victims’ families. Investigations focus on multiple failures: lack of sprinklers in the basement, inadequate emergency exits, unauthorized structural changes, and the use of flammable materials in a high-occupancy venue. One lawyer representing bereaved families accused authorities of moving too slowly: “Forty young lives were lost because safety was an afterthought. We demand justice, not excuses.”

The Swiss government has launched a nationwide review of fire-safety regulations in bars, clubs, and event spaces, particularly those in tourist-heavy Alpine regions. Fire marshals are inspecting acoustic installations, pyrotechnic policies, and occupancy limits. Ski-resort operators face pressure to implement stricter oversight during peak holiday periods.

For the survivors—many still hospitalized with severe burns, undergoing skin grafts, and facing long recoveries—the physical scars are matched by psychological ones. Support groups have formed, with psychologists specializing in mass-casualty trauma flying in from across Europe. One survivor, a 17-year-old Italian girl, told reporters: “We were laughing, dancing, making plans for the year ahead. Then everything went black. I still hear the screams in my sleep.”

As funerals continue and memorials multiply—from candlelit vigils in Crans-Montana to online tribute pages amassing thousands of messages—the question lingers: How could this happen in one of the world’s safest countries? Switzerland prides itself on precision, order, and reliability. Yet on that New Year’s night, a momentary lapse—sparklers too close to foam—unleashed chaos that stole futures, shattered families, and exposed vulnerabilities long ignored.

Alicia and Diana Gunst died side by side, as they had lived. Matéo Lesguer left the decks mid-set, his music silenced forever. The 40 who perished were not statistics; they were sons and daughters, siblings and friends, dreamers on the cusp of adulthood. Their remains are finally heading home, but the void they leave will echo for generations.

In Crans-Montana, the snow continues to fall, blanketing the scars. But beneath the white silence, a community—and a nation—grieves, remembers, and vows: Never again.