Smoke and Mirrors

As I walked slowly and deliberately through the fire station, the smell of burned wood and lingering smoke permeated the air. Red-painted lockers lined the walls, their metal doors gleaming in the low overhead illumination. After I asked the firefighters to disperse, the buzz of talk had subsided.

The station had fallen into a tense silence.

Good. That meant they were thinking. That meant doubt had begun to fester.

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook, flipping it open to an empty page. With a smooth flick of my wrist, I retrieved a pen and began jotting down details as I moved through the room.

David. Logan.

Two names. Two suspects.

One truth.

I stopped in front of David's locker again, my eyes scanning its contents. The two lighters sat there, seemingly mundane, but the details screamed otherwise. The first was well-used, worn from excessive flicking, blackened at the edges. The second was nearly untouched, only half of its fuel used.

A firefighter wouldn't have much use for lighters beyond the occasional controlled test or personal habit. But in a case where arson was involved, the presence of multiple lighters—especially a nearly unused one—felt off.

I noted it down.

Two lighters, one half full and the other extensively used, are in David's locker. potential link to arson incidents.

I still required more. I had to prove more than suspicion—I had to prove a trend.

I pivoted on my heel and headed toward the gear room. The room was tidy, with rows of helmets and suits arranged in perfect lines, their reflective strips gleaming in the sunlight. In an attempt to find any discrepancies, I ran my gloved fingertips along the borders of several uniforms. There may have been residue if someone had been involved in starting the flames.

It didn't take long.

I discovered a suit that still had the subtle smell of gasoline in it, tucked away in the back of the rack. Upon closer inspection, tiny burn marks appeared along the margins; these were not the result of a routine fire rescue but rather of something more intentional. It seemed like the fabric had been exposed to a controlled flame because of the concentrated damage. 

I pulled out my phone and took a brief photo before writing down another message.

Gear Room: One suit smells of gasoline, small scorch marks. Possible tampering.

I walked past the equipment shelves and in closer. The walls were lined with various tools, extinguishers, and coiled hoses. I skimmed over them, searching for anything that didn't belong. Then—

I noticed something.

At the extreme end, tucked away behind a line of others, is a fire extinguisher. It was positioned somewhat off-center, as if it had just been repositioned. I knelt down and looked at the label.

The tag was intact, but the weight was… wrong.

I lifted it slightly, feeling the imbalance. A quick twist of the cap confirmed my suspicion. It wasn't filled with foam.

It had been drained and refilled.

With what? I wasn't sure yet, but I had a damn good guess.

I made another note.

Equipment Room: Fire extinguisher possibly tampered with. Needs further analysis.

I exhaled, standing up and adjusting my coat. The pieces were beginning to form a picture, but it was still incomplete.

I needed something more.

Something concrete.

Sasha's locker was my next stop.

When I pulled it open, the metal creaked. Her personal possessions, an extra uniform, and a few straggling paperwork were all nicely organized within. My gloved fingers flipped through documents and notes as I meticulously went through everything. The majority were ordinary. Reminders and schedules.

And then—

Letters.

Folded and a little crumpled from repeated use, tucked inside a side pocket. I carefully unfolded them after pulling them out. The writing was hurried and crooked. In other spots, the writing smeared, as though it had been scrawled in sorrow.

"If you don't do as you're told, you'll regret it."

"They're looking for us. Don't speak."

"Whether you are present or not, the next fire occurs. Ensure that it is done correctly."

I felt a chill creep up my spine.

This wasn't just coercion.

This was a threat.

I knew Sasha hadn't been acting alone, but this confirms she also hadn't been acting of her own volition. She had been forced. And that meant someone within the station had leverage over her.

I took pictures of the letters before carefully folding them back. I didn't want to tip anyone off just yet.

Sasha's Locker: Threatening letters. Forced involvement in arson.

The picture was becoming clearer.

But the mastermind?

That was still in question.

David was stressed—Logan, however…

I glanced back at his locker. Unlike David's, it was immaculately organized. Almost too much so. The lock itself showed no signs of forced entry, but when I twisted it open, I found something unusual.

A hidden compartment.

Tiny, almost perceptible, but present. The locker has a fake bottom. Carefully, I pryed it open to reveal a little pile of files. Personal notes, not work-related materials. Plans. drawings.

Fire plans.

Marked Locations.

I tucked the papers back where I found them, ensuring nothing looked disturbed. I couldn't tip my hand yet.

But I had enough to press forward.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew my attention. I turned to see one of the firefighters—a younger man, maybe in his early thirties—standing at the entrance. He looked a bit uneasy, his eyes darting between me and the open lockers.

"The interrogation room is ready," he said, clearing his throat. "You can head in."

I nodded, closing Sasha's locker gently. "Thank you."

With slow, measured steps, I followed him toward the designated room. The hallway felt longer than usual, the air heavier.

And then—

I entered.

The door closed behind me.

And there I was, looking directly at David.

His fingers jerked on the table, but his face was inscrutable.

He was nervous.

Good.

This was going to be interesting.