That’s it. I’m done waiting.
I trained as a firefighter before I became an EMT. Did the drills. Learned the heat patterns. The signs of collapse.
Then a busted knee ended that path, shoved me into a different uniform. But the instincts never left.
And I’m not standing around when a kid might still be inside.
I cut away from the main cluster of responders, circling toward the back of the house. Everyone’s focused on the front—windows, ladders, shouting.
If the kid was there, they’d have found them by now.
Instinct pulls me toward the shadows.
The back of the house is worse.
Smoke seeps from every seam, curling low. The air tastes like ash and electricity.
I spot it almost immediately—an old basement door, the kind you pull up from the outside, warped and half-hidden by overgrown brush.
“Hello?” I call, already reaching for it.
The door creaks open, revealing a narrow stairwell descending into darkness.
Smoke rolls down from above, thick and choking. I pull my jacket tighter and start down.
“Hello?” My voice echoes.
No answer.
I cough, eyes burning. This is stupid. Dangerous. I know better.
I turn and stop dead.
Someone is standing at the bottom of the stairs.
No.
Not someone.
Something.
He’s tall. Six and a half feet at least.
Broad.
Standing in the middle of the blaze like it doesn’t touch him.
Flames lick the walls behind him, but they bend away from his skin, curling like they’re afraid.
His eyes lift to mine.
They’re glowing.
Amber. Bright. Alive. Like fire given shape.
I’m struck dumb.
This isn’t possible.
