Collapse

The moment the distant explosions faded, replaced by the growing wail of sirens and the hiss of rising flames, Chief Ryan snapped into action. His voice roared over the chaos, sharp and commanding.

"Logan! David! Sasha! Get the trucks prepped now. I'm contacting neighboring districts for backup."

No hesitation. No room for it.

While the others scattered, I pulled out my phone, fingers moving fast over the screen.

Are you ok?

I sent the message to Sienna, my pulse racing harder than it had during any fire. No immediate response. My thumb hovered over the screen, debating if I should call instead, but Chief Ryan's voice cut through my hesitation as he re-entered the room, phone still clutched in his hand.

"Backup's coming, but they're stretched thin. Too many fires, not enough people. We're splitting into pairs to cover as much ground as possible until they arrive."

My heart sank with the weight of those words. We were on our own for now.

Ryan's sharp gaze scanned the room, landing on me. "Mr. Fox, you're with me."

It made sense. Pair the least experienced with the most. But it wasn't just strategy. There was something else in Ryan's eyes—trust, maybe, or the instinct of a leader who knew how to balance risk.

The others geared up quickly. Logan and David jumped into Engine 12, Sasha partnered with a rookie named Grayson, and within minutes, the trucks roared out of the station, sirens screaming into the burning city.

Chief Ryan and I stayed behind, suiting up in near silence. The protective layers felt heavier than usual, the weight not just physical but emotional—a growing dread tucked beneath every buckle and strap.

As soon as we were ready, we sprinted on foot toward the nearest column of smoke. It wasn't far—just a few blocks down, flames devouring the windows of a small kindergarten. The colorful murals on the walls were already blackened, paint blistering under the relentless heat.

We didn't hesitate.

Kicking in the front door, smoke poured out like an angry beast. The heat slammed into us, but I welcomed it. It was familiar. Manageable. The real threat was what lay beyond.

"Check left!" Ryan barked, his voice cutting through the roar.

I nodded and veered right, my Thermal Perception kicking in immediately. The world shifted subtly—cooler areas faded while heat signatures pulsed like beacons. Most of the building was empty, but faint outlines flickered deeper inside. Survivors.

"Got movement, right side!" I shouted.

We moved fast, methodical, clearing rooms and guiding out trapped teachers and a handful of staff who'd been trying to contain the chaos. The evacuation was messy—some people stumbling from smoke inhalation, others frozen in shock—but we managed. Each life pulled from the flames felt like a small victory.

But then I saw it.

Through the thick smoke, faint and flickering—three smaller heat signatures deeper inside, surrounded by growing hotspots.

"Kids!" I snapped, already moving.

Ryan was right behind me, no questions asked.

The hallway we entered groaned under the strain of the fire, the ceiling sagging ominously. I relied on Advanced Rescue Mastery, the fusion skill humming at the edge of my mind, guiding every step. I didn't think—I just moved, my body reacting faster than conscious thought.

We found them huddled in a corner, eyes wide with fear, smoke staining their faces. Without missing a beat, I scooped up two of them, cradling them against my chest as Ryan grabbed the third.

"Move!" he shouted, and we did.

But the building wasn't going to make it easy.

The walls trembled as we ran, the fire's fury reaching its peak. My Hazard Assessment combined with my construction-related skills painted a mental map of the collapse points. I saw it—where the floor was weakest, where the ceiling would give out. It was like having x-ray vision threaded with instinct.

I surged ahead, weaving through the debris with practiced precision. My feet found the right spots without hesitation, every movement efficient and calculated.

Ryan was fast too—experienced, strong—but not like this. Not with the same precision.

Then it happened.

A deep, guttural crack echoed through the hallway.

I spun just in time to see the ceiling above Ryan give way. A massive beam, burning and splintered, came crashing down.

I skidded to a halt.

Ryan didn't flinch. Didn't slow.

With the kind of reflexes only a seasoned firefighter could have, he twisted his body, shielding the child in his arms as the debris crashed down on top of him.

The sound of impact was deafening.

My legs moved before my mind caught up, the two kids still cradled against me as I pushed forward. I found a relatively stable section of the hallway, gently setting them down, their tear-streaked faces reflecting the orange glow of the fire.

Then I turned back.

The smoke was thicker now, suffocating, and the heat roared like a beast unleashed. But none of it mattered.

I sprinted.

The world narrowed to one point—where I'd last seen Chief Ryan. The debris was piled high, jagged beams jutting like broken ribs from the wreckage. I clawed at it with everything I had, pulling, lifting, shoving aside chunks of smoldering wood and concrete, the edges biting through my gloves.

The heat was unbearable.

My breath rasped in my ears, mixing with the distant sounds of the building groaning, threatening to collapse entirely.

But I didn't stop.

I didn't feel the burn, the exhaustion, the weight.

I just dug.

Until, finally, through the tangled mess of debris and ash—I saw him.

Pinned.

Still.

I stumbled forward, falling to my knees beside him. The world faded—the roar of the flames, the creak of the dying structure, even the desperate voices crackling over the radio.

It was just me and Ryan.

And the weight of everything I couldn't save.