He rolled, coughing violently, chest burning as he dragged in breath after breath, then forced himself upright and ran. Sirens were already closing in, red and blue lights splashing across brick and pavement as engines screeched to a stop along Main Street.
He rounded the corner toward the front of the building, desperate to find a ladder, a hose line, any sign that someone had reached her.
And then he saw her.
Wrapped in a blanket. Seated on the rear step of an ambulance. Smoke smudged across her skin. Hair tangled. Hands bandaged.
Alive.
The force of it hit him so hard his steps faltered, relief cutting through him with such intensity that he had to steady himself before moving again. She had escaped. Somehow. Against fire and fear and the very trap meant to kill her.
He crossed the street quickly, weaving through firefighters and police, and reached her just as she looked up.
Her eyes met his.
The fear there hadn’t fully faded, but beneath it he saw something else flood in—relief, fragile and unguarded, as though she hadn’t quite allowed herself to believe he would appear.
“Thank God,” she whispered, her voice raw.
He dropped down in front of her without thinking, ignoring the EMT’s protest, grounding himself in the simple fact of her presence. Breathing. Warm. Real.
“Takes more than a little fire to get rid of me,” he said quietly, though his hands still shook with adrenaline and smoke.
“How did you get out?”
“Bedsheets,” she murmured. “The window.”
The image struck him with painful clarity—Annie tying knots with shaking fingers, smoke pouring around her, forcing herself into open air while flames closed in behind her. The realization stirred something fierce and protective deep in his chest.
She’d done that. Alone.
He reached out before he could reconsider, letting his fingers rest lightly against the blanket near her wrist, not pulling her closer, not crossing lines, but anchoring the moment.
“I thought you were…” She stopped.
“I’m here,” he said simply.
Her gaze lifted to his, and for an instant the chaos around them receded, leaving only the shared truth of survival between them.
Then she looked past him at the burning shell of her building, and her composure fractured.
“Everything’s gone,” she whispered. “The shop. My apartment. All of it.”
He shifted so he blocked part of the view from her, lowering himself closer so she wouldn’t have to raise her voice over the sirens.
“The locket,” she said then, barely audible. He saw her hand move to her pocket and understood. Relief and dread collided in his chest.
Before Jack could respond, Annie’s phone buzzed.
The sound was sharp in the quiet street. Too loud. Annie stilled, then slowly drew the phone from her pocket.
Jack saw the color drain from her face.
She didn’t speak. Just turned the screen toward him.
YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE KEPT IT.
WE’RE CLOSER THAN YOU THINK.
