Flaming Surveillance

The room stayed frozen after my words, the echo of the alarm fading into an uneasy silence. I could feel their eyes on me—Logan's sharp with skepticism, the others clouded with confusion and exhaustion.

"There's no fire," I said again, my voice cutting through the static hum of lingering adrenaline.

No one moved.

Logan's jaw clenched, his hand still resting on the strap of his gear. "What are you talking about? The alarm was triggered—"

"Give me the address." I stepped forward, my mask catching the harsh fluorescent lights, casting shadows that felt sharper than they should've. "Now."

He hesitated for half a second, then barked at the dispatcher. "Address!"

The reply came crackling through the comms: "1435 Eldridge Avenue. Office complex."

I didn't need to check a map. I already knew.

One of the fifteen.

Without another word, I pulled out my phone and dialed the number saved under Office Supervisor – Eldridge. My fingers moved faster than my thoughts, but my mind was already racing ahead, fitting the puzzle pieces together before the call even connected.

A click, then a shaky voice. "Hello?"

"This is Mr. Fox," I said, skipping past introductions. "Is everything secure?"

There was a pause—a heartbeat stretched thin. Then:

"We… we found something." The supervisor's voice was low, like he didn't want to be overheard. "A fuse. Hidden in the ceiling panels. It burst into flames, but we contained it fast. Barely singed the insulation. No damage beyond that."

My heart didn't race. It slowed.

This wasn't about a fire, but more that I had all the information I needed.

"Thank you," I replied, my voice steady. "Keep the building secure and don't talk to anyone outside your staff about this."

I hung up before he could respond.

Turning back to the room, I scanned the faces staring at me—Logan, arms crossed but tense; David, eyebrows drawn in confusion; Sasha, tapping her foot, her gaze flickering to the clock without realizing it.

"The fire was real," I said quietly, letting the words settle like dust. "But it failed to burn and it send a message."

Logan frowned. "To who?"

I looked around, letting the weight of it hang in the silence.

"To me."

Murmurs rippled through the room like aftershocks.

I didn't let them build.

"One of you," I said, sweeping my gaze across the gathered firefighters, "is the mastermind."

Chaos erupted. Voices overlapping, questions thrown like sparks—"What the hell are you talking about?"—"Is this some kind of joke?"—"You're out of your damn mind, Fox!"

I didn't flinch.

"Chief Ryan thought the same thing before he died."

That shut them up.

The name hit harder than anything I could've said. Ryan wasn't just a leader; he was the backbone of this station before Logan picked up the pieces. His ghost still lingered in the corners of this place, in the protocols we followed, in the way Logan barked orders like he was trying to fill shoes too big to wear.

I continued, my voice steady, sharp, slicing through the tension.

"I knew something was wrong. That's why I kept pushing for internal checks, for constant hazard sweeps in specific areas. Not because I thought fires would break out—but because I wanted to see which of you would notice them first."

Realization flickered in their eyes.

"And today," I said, pacing slightly, "one of you was likely found. Hidden, subtle, but not enough to slip past someone who knew exactly where to look."

I let that hang for a moment.

"The mastermind would be anxious, checking alarms, watching our responses, needing to know if the plan worked. So I waited. I set the board. And now—" I glanced at the wall clock, the minute hand ticking past 1:37 PM, "we check the surveillance footage. We see who couldn't help but look."

No one argued.

The group moved as if pulled by invisible strings, filing into the surveillance room. The hum of the monitors filled the space, overlapping camera feeds flickering like memories on repeat.

I stood behind the tech as they queued up the footage.

1:37 PM.

Rewind. Play.

I scanned the screens, my heart still steady, searching for the cracks beneath the surface. Faces flashed—David laughing at some joke, Logan walking past with a clipboard, steady and composed—

And then Sasha.

The paramedic firefighter. Usually calm under pressure, her sharp efficiency on the field unmatched. But here, in the safety of the station, her composure was fraying.

She wasn't just glancing at the monitors—she was obsessing. Checking and rechecking. Pacing. Her hand hovering near the radio like it was burning her fingers.

Everyone saw it.

The room grew colder, the realization sinking in like a slow, creeping frost.

Sasha noticed the shift, her eyes darting around, defenses rising like a shield made of paper.

"What?" she snapped, her voice brittle. "I was being thorough. Isn't that my job?"

No one answered.

She kept talking, words spilling out too fast, excuses tangled with justifications. The more she spoke, the thinner the thread of credibility became. Her face flushed, her posture rigid, like a cornered animal trying to bluff its way out.

Logan's expression darkened.

It didn't take long.

The police arrived faster than I expected—probably tipped off by the supervisor. Officers entered with quiet authority, cuffs gleaming under the sterile lights. They asked for the footage and I agreed without hesitation.

Sasha's protests grew louder, but no one listened.

She was arrested, dragged out in a flurry of denial and thin accusations to be interrogated.

When the door finally shut behind her, silence settled again.

No one cheered.

No one said thank you.

They just stared.

Some at the door.

Most at me.

Logan broke the silence, his voice low. "You planned this."

It wasn't a question.

I nodded once.

The others looked at me differently now—not just as Mr. Fox, the masked heroic figure they'd grown used to—but as something else. A strategist. A hunter.

But all I felt was exhaustion.

Because it was too easy.

I should've felt relief, but it sat wrong in my chest, like breathing in smoke when you expect clean air.

Later, when the station cleared out and the adrenaline faded, I sat alone in the locker room.

The mask rested beside me, its empty eyes staring back.

My phone buzzed.

I glanced at the screen, expecting another update from the police, maybe Logan or Sienna checking in.

But it wasn't that.

I stared at the message for a long moment.

Then I smiled.

Camille: "Your second mask is ready. Hope you like it… though I'd rather see you without one. 😉"