I make it halfway across the scene, past two ambulances, past Viktor still yelling, past the barrier line the EMTs aren’t letting anyone cross, and then whatever was holding me together snaps. I’m gone. I’m nothing but instinct and terror and motion.
Then arms slam hard and lock around my middle, ripping me backward as Cole’s voice cuts through it—raw, terrified, too close to breaking—shouting, “ELIAS, NO!!”
I thrash instantly, violently, every part of me reacting. “LET ME GO!!” I scream, shoving, kicking, clawing at him with everything I have left. “LET ME THE FUCK GO!! I NEED TO SAVE HIM—LET ME GO—DAMIAN’S STILL IN THERE—”
I’m shaking so badly my teeth chatter. Tears smear across my vision until the world is nothing but sirens and smoke and colorless blur. Everything’s gone. Rational thought. Air. Control. Gone.
I scream again, louder, animal. My throat tears with it, the sound ripping straight out of the part of me that still thinks I might reach him if I just get close enough.
Cole grunts, struggling to hold on as I twist and claw. I hear him curse under his breath—“Fuck, Elias—Jesus, calm down—”
But I don’t. I can’t. My nails catch on his jersey as I fight him, muscles burning, lungs collapsing. I don’t care if I hurt him. I don’t care if I hurt myself. I don’t care about anything except the fire and the possibility that somewhere behind it, inside it, Damian is trapped and waiting and alone.
I’d rather die in those flames than lose him.
And all I know—all I feel, in the deepest, most catastrophic part of me—is that if they pull a body off that bus, I’ll never get up again.
I’m gone.
Fully, violently, beyond reason gone.
Screaming, kicking, clawing at the air, at Cole’s arms locked tight around my ribs, at the ground scraping beneath my shoes, my entire body acting on pure, animal panic, trying to tear itself free, trying to get to the bus, to him. My voice isn’t a voice anymore, it’s something wild and raw that keeps tearing out of my throat in choked, cracking bursts. The sound bounces off the pavement, louder in my skull than the sirens or shouting or any of the chaos around me.
Cole’s arms nearly slip once—he swears, sharp and breathless—“Fuck—Elias—stop—” but I’m thrashing like I’ll die if I don’t get free. My legs kick, my nails dig at anything they can find.
I don’t hear the EMTs. I don’t hear the crowd. I don’t hear the rest of the team screaming behind me.
All I hear is the fire. All I see is the bus. And all I feel is the memory.
Not again. Not him .Please, not him—
And then a shadow blocks the world. A hand slams into my face. Fingers hard, unyielding, digging into my cheeks and jaw, forcing my head up.
Viktor.
Right in front of me.
He stands towering, blood staining his shirt, fire burning in his eyes. Pads gone, helmet missing, silent and wild with rage he hasn’t let out yet. And I’m beneath him, small and shaking, gasping as I stare into his eyes like they might give me the answer I’m desperate for. Like they might tell me Damian isn’t dead.
His eyes burn straight into mine, and his mouth is moving—but I hear nothing. Nothing but my own heartbeat trying to break through my ribs.
I thrash again, harder, a strangled scream ripping out of me—“LET ME GO—LET ME GO—DAMIAN—DAMIAN—”
Cole nearly drops me. “Jesus, curls—” he chokes out, arms barely holding on as I thrash, every limb shaking. My chest won’t expand right. I can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop falling.
And Viktor—Viktor’s still right in front of me, face thunder-dark and unreadable, lips moving fast like he’s spitting curses in Russian, but I can’t hear him. My stomach lurches. My knees go weak. My throat’s closing again.
“PUP!” He roars—one word, sharp and guttural, like it’s been ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. It slices through the chaos. For one suspended heartbeat, the world stops.
My body jolts as if struck, muscles locking, the scream caught halfway up my throat. The ringing in my ears cracks open, and suddenly I’m here again. Not in the fire. Not in the wreckage of memory. But here, on the pavement, in the smoke.
My lungs seize mid-breath, and my eyes—blurred, wild—snap to his. Because that word—that word—wasn’t his.
It was Damian’s. No. ItisDamian’s.
Mine.
The word he uses when I’m on the ice, charging forward with blood on my tongue. When I’m kneeling between his legs, begging. When I’m shaking, drowning, and he brings me back. It’s not just a name. It’s not just a pet word. It’s a lifeline.
