#irmhoitd

By the time they pulled up to the scene, smoke was already curling into the sky in thick, angry black plumes. People were stumbling out of the building in varying degrees of disarray—coughing, crying, shouting for help, screaming about others still inside.

Sal took a deep breath, adjusted his helmet, and did what he did best. He slipped into command like muscle memory, like a second skin made just for him, everything funneling into one sharp point of focus the second he stepped out of the rig.

“Herrera, Jones! Set up triage. Get everyone checked out and for fuck’s sake, don’t let anyone run back inside.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Harris! Cruz—on ladder! Get those hoses up and spraying. Bennett, take a sweep of the exterior and watch for structural compromise. The smallest shift of rubble—I wanna know about it. Torres, you’re with me.” He barked the orders out, confident and steady as always, even as the world around him buzzed with chaos.

“Dispatch, this is Captain Deluca from the 122. Has the gas line been shut off? I ain’t stepping inside that building if I’m gonna be blasted off to kingdom come.”

“Captain,” the voice answered in an amused tone, and he let out a relieved breath at the fact that it wasn’t Maddie. “All main lines to the building have been shut off. You’re good to go.”

He checked the seal on his mask, grabbed his halligan, and pushed through the main entrance with Torres right behind him.

The alarms were still shrieking somewhere overhead, echoing through the empty hallways. No smoke on the first floor though. Good, thought Sal. The fire hadn’t spread far. That made their job far easier. They found the stairwell and moved fast, sweeping room by room, calling out. The first floor was cleared, quickly moving on to the next one.

“LAFD, call out,” he shouted into the last apartment on the second floor. He was about to step back when a quiet whimper cut through the noise.

Sal froze, then pushed deeper inside. There was only one closed door in the entire apartment; instinct drove him toward it.

“Anyone in here?” he called, keeping his voice steady and loud.

A small sob answered him.

“It’s okay,” he said, softer now. “I’m with the fire department. We’re getting everyone out of the building. Can you let me in?”

He gave it a moment. Nothing. He stepped back, ready to break the door—when it cracked open on its own, revealing a young boy, maybe eight, with a toddler clinging to his leg.

The boy immediately shuffled back into the bathroom, wrapping his arms. protectively around the girl.

Sal crouched down, removing his mask and doing his best to appear non-threatening—knowing how loud his voice, posture, presence was. The only children he hadn’t ever scared were Gina’s, and even then, sometimes he believed that had all been up to her influence. His best friend had always managed to soften his rough edges. “Hey, kid. Where are your parents?”

The boy only shook his head, eyes wide and scared.

“Okay,” Sal gruffed out, jaw tight. “That’s okay. You’re takin’ real good care of your sister. But the building’s not safe right now. We need to get you both out, alright? Think ya can come with me?” He extended a gloved hand. “Gotta make sure she’s safe.”

The little girl whimpered, digging her head deeper onto the kid’s leg. The boy squeezed her shoulder, then lifted her into his arms with practiced familiarity—like he’d been doing it his whole life. Keeping her close, comforting her.

Something in Sal’s chest twisted. He made a mental note to follow up on these kids once this whole damn thing was over.

The boy slipped his hand, small and trembling, into Sal’s and Sal led them quickly out of the unit. Outside, he flagged down Herrera and handed them off. He watched as she guided them toward the ambulance, the boy still clutching his sister with fierce protectiveness.

For a split second, Sal had the urge to follow. To make sure the kids were safe. And didn't that throw him off.

That wasn’t who he was. He wasn’t like—

Not now. He couldn’t afford to think about them right now.

He turned away, shook his head and steadied his breath before heading right back into the building.

They were almost done with the third floor when a sharp metallic ping echoed overhead.

It made the hair on the back of Sal’s neck stand up. He angled his head back, scanning the ceiling for cracks. There were none. But unease crawled under his skin anyway, alarm bells ringing loudly in his head.

Sal paused and lifted his radio.

“Bennett, how’s the building holding up?” he asked.

Silence.

“Harris, Cruz—status?”

The radio crackled, hissed, then spat out a garbled mess of broken static and warped syllables. Nothing he could make out. Complete and utter gibberish.

“Son of a—” He smacked the side of the radio once. Then again, harder. “Repeat that. You’re unreadable, over.”

Still only distorted noise.

Torres tried his own radio. Same result.

“Shit,” Sal muttered. “What the fuck…” His mind flitted through every scenario where a radio malfunction like this got you killed, and that was all he needed to make the right call.

“Torres, we’re retreating. Back outside, now.”

He raised his voice and spoke into the radio anyway—in case dispatch could still hear him.

“Captain Deluca and firefighter Torres pulling out. I repeat, radios are down. We’re pulling out!”

“Let’s move fast,” he told Torres, already scanning the ceiling again. “I don’t like the sounds I’m hearin’.”

“You got it, Cap.”

They turned toward the direction of the stairwell—just as the world bucked beneath them.

BOOM.

A second explosion went off. In the floor above, slightly closer to them.

The walls shuddered violently. Dust rained down in thick clumps, coating their gear like grimy snow. Sal and Torres stumbled to their knees with the strength of the blast and locked eyes, both thinking the same thing:

Oh, shit.

“Well, that ain’t good,” Sal grumbled, already shoving himself to his feet.

They sprinted down the hallway, boots hammering against the floor, echoes swallowed by the groan of stressed metal. Chunks of ceiling crashed around them, debris piling up fast.

Behind him, Torres yelped as he tripped on a piece of plaster.

“Move!” Sal barked on instinct. He reached back, caught a fistful of Torres’ turnout coat, and yanked him upright, shoving him ahead of him; saving him from the slab of concrete that smashed into the spot where he’d fallen.

But the rescue cost Sal his momentum.

The ceiling above them let out a final, long and agonized screech—metal twisting, surrendering.

Then—

A massive weight slammed into Sal. Heavy and unforgiving.

And everything went black.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

He came to with a choking gasp, the rusty taste of blood coating his mouth and pain blooming like wildfire across his ribs. His head pounded—like a herd of elephants had trampled straight through his skull. Something heavy was laying on him—no, pinning him down—so firmly that breathing took effort. His helmet had cracked; a jagged edge of plastic pressed awkwardly into his cheek.

“Torres—?” His voice came out a shredded croak. He swallowed, tried again. “Torres!”

No answer.

“C’mon…you’re picking now to be quiet. You never shut up,” he muttered, desperation creeping in around the edges.

He tried to move. He shouldn’t have.

Agony detonated through his side, white-hot and merciless. A ragged scream tore out of him before he could clamp it down, echoing harshly off the half-collapsed walls. Black spots exploded across his vision; he squeezed his eyes shut until they faded enough for him to force them open again, blinking into a shaky sort of focus.

The space was barely recognizable. Walls tilted at wrong angles. Slabs of concrete and plaster leaned against each other like toppled dominoes. Overhead lights flickered, dangling by wires that sparked and spit like angry insects. Up and down refused to make sense. Concrete, plaster, wiring—everything was mashed together like a giant’s fist had punched through the building.

Something dark and lumpy lay a few feet from him in a spreading puddle of liquid.

Unmoving.

Sal stared at it for one solid, suspended second. His pulse hammered; his brain refused to process what his eyes were telling him. Wouldn't. Couldn’t.

He dragged his gaze away with a trembling inhale, choosing denial over what he already knew.

His radio sure as hell hadn’t fixed itself, but he tried it anyway. “Dispatch…122—anybody—this is Captain Deluca, I’m—ah—pinned down…Torres is…” He choked on the words, left them hanging.

Silence. Nothing but dead air.

His breathing started coming too fast. A hot haze crept through his skull, tightening his chest, fogging his thoughts.

Fuck…I’m going to die here.

Alone.

With his regrets.

Without telling them—

Without telling them how he felt.

He clenched his jaw and shook his head—pain ricocheting through him—trying to shove back the despair threatening to bowl him over like a tide. Stop that! He chastised himself. He couldn’t think like that.

What he needed to do was stay awake. He needed to stay present. If he slipped under, it was over. There were no guarantees he’d ever wake again.

Still, despite his resolve, the sweet embrace of a pain-free existence beckoned to him. Calling like a siren luring her sailors straight into the cold, dark of her arms. And he felt himself slipping, inch by inch.

A faint sound brushed through the ringing in his ear.

A voice?

Sal strained to make it out. Was that help? Someone calling out?

He grunted, listening harder.

At first, it was nothing more than a whisper. A shape of something familiar.

Sal…

His brows knitted. He turned his head slightly, wincing.

Hey…old man…no going to sleep just yet, okay?

He frowned deeper. The voice was warm. Teasing. Young.

He tried to orient himself toward it, but the pain dragged at him, muddling his senses. A confused sound escaped his throat.

“Ev…Ev’n…” he slurred, each syllable sparking a new bolt of pain through his skull. His eyes fluttered, heavy, wanting to shut.

Sal…va…tooore. Stay awake.

He grit his teeth weakly. “H’te when ya call me that, kid” he mumbled to the empty air. “Ya sound like m’ ma.”

A sudden spike of fear sliced clean through the fog. His eyes snapped open and he looked wildly around the destroyed hallway.

“Wait, Ev…where—?”

His breath hitched sharply with pain. He reached up with a trembling hand, ripped the cracked helmet off his head and flung it aside, desperate for a clearer view of his surroundings,

“Where are you?” he rasped.

His question hung in the ruins, unanswered.

A broken gasp tore loose from him as he shoved uselessly at the slab pinning him, panic overriding everything. The effort sent another wave of dizziness crashing over him, tilting the world sideways. His vision blurred, going black at the edges.

He fought it—god, he fought it—for the not-Evan who’d told him to stay awake. But his body was done with him.

His eyes slid shut.

And the darkness claimed him again.