Rodriguez emerged from his office. Studied me for a moment, the captain's assessment, missing nothing.
I straightened.
"Stone."
"Sir."
"The journalist."
Heat crept up my neck. "Sir, I can explain?—"
"About damn time." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Now get to work. Rig needs checking."
He disappeared back into his office.
Shane burst out laughing.
"Did Rodriguez just give you his blessing?"
"I think he told me to get to work."
"Same thing." Shane stood, clapped me on the shoulder. "Welcome back to the land of the living, brother. We missed you."
I didn't have words for that. So I just nodded and headed for the bay.
Something warm had settled in my chest. The crew. The station. The quiet certainty of belonging.
Now I had Sloane too.
The thought still felt fragile. New. Like something I needed to protect.
The tones dropped at two in the afternoon.
Structure fire. Residential. Family trapped on the second floor.
We rolled out in under a minute, muscle memory, the familiar choreography of boots and gear and engine roaring to life.
I was in the cab before my conscious mind caught up.
Fully involved when we arrived. Flames pouring from the second-floor windows, smoke billowing black against gray sky. A woman on the sidewalk screaming that her kids were still inside.
"Stone, leading interior." Rodriguez through the radio. "Martinez, O'Brien, with him. Search and rescue, second floor."
Mask on. Gear checked. The fear was there, always there, but it lived alongside the training. Fuel instead of obstacle.
We went in.
Stairs intact but weakening. Heat from all sides, that suffocating pressure that made you feel small against the fire's appetite.
"FDNY! Call out if you can hear me!"
Crying. Faint but unmistakable. Back bedroom.
"This way."
The hallway was a tunnel of smoke. Low and fast, feeling the floor for soft spots. Bedroom door hot to the touch, not good, but not impossible.
I forced it open.
