I grip the edge of the hood, fingers curling against the metal, still warm from the day's sun. I tell myself this was necessary. That the old way—the bureaucratic chokehold of Command and chain-of-liability ass-covering—was what killed more people than fire ever did. When Ignis approached me they explained they were the correction. A purge. And if it takes one burn to light the path forward, so be it.
Liv isn’t supposed to come out of that canyon—a necessary casualty.
It’s supposed to be clean. A terrible tragedy with those who died being proclaimed heroes. One survivor, maybe two, but not her. We need someone to blame the tragedy on. There needs to be enough wreckage to drive headlines and get policy leverage.
My phone vibrates. A second channel.
ALPHA: Visual acquired. Multiple structure losses imminent. One survivor—team lead—evac is en route.
My spine goes cold. No. Not her. It can't be.
She is supposed to be ash, and I will be her grieving fiancé. It can’t be her; she’ll ask all the questions we don’t want asked.
I flip to the live sat feed streaming from an Ignis drone. There’s the bird coming in low through the smoke. There’s the flare marker. I focus the binoculars and zoom in.
Smoke-grimed, bleeding, stumbling through the edge of the fire line. It’s her.
Her eyes are clear. Focused. Alive.
"She made it out," I whisper, stepping back from the rig. "That wasn’t supposed to happen."
The silence on the line stretches, then fractures.
OMEGA: That alters the plan. Asset exposure risk. Remove or discredit.
I lower the comm slowly.
Remove or discredit. I tried removal; I’ll need to work fast to see that the blame is placed solely on her.
I stare down at the screen one more time, at Liv being lifted out as the fire roars around her.
She was supposed to die. Be the symbol. The kindling for something bigger.
Instead, she just became the biggest liability I could have left breathing.
Time to make sure she stays buried with the truth—if not in the ground, then in guilt, ruin, and smoke.
Because if she talks, if anyone listens... everything I’ve worked for goes up in flames.
LIV
After the Post-Incident Review
Six Months Ago
“You’re not going to fight it?”
Danny Greer’s voice is low, but not kind. Not anymore. There’s no concern behind it. Just calculation, polished smooth.
I stare at the coffee in my mug like it might grow claws and start tearing at the raw parts of me. “You know I did. I fought. I shouted. I went to the regional director, the union, even the damn incident board. But let’s be real. No one’s gonna torch their own infrastructure to admit I was right.”
He doesn’t argue. He never does—not when it matters. His arms are crossed, posture stiff and clipped, like he's still on duty. Like he’s still Fire Command and I’m just another checkmark on the shift log. Standing in what used to be our kitchen. Mine, now. Always mine, it turns out. He never moved in all the way, did he? Not with his clothes, not with his heart.
“They’re not just reassigning you, Liv,” he says after a beat. “They’re saying you...”
“I know what they’re saying,” I snap, sharper than I mean to be—but not sorry. “I’m the scapegoat with tits. I’m the only one who came back breathing. So I get the blame. And the guilt. And the demotion to babysitting rookies on mop-up duty.”
“You were the crew leader.”
