As we entered the tower's second level, the smoke billowed thick and artificial around us. Even through my mask, I caught the distinct chemical edge that marked it as training smoke rather than real. The difference nagged at me—too clean and controlled. It was nothing like the toxic cocktail of burning materials we usually faced.
Barrett's breathing echoed over the radio, measured and steady. Good. She was keeping her air consumption under control despite the confined space. The rookie was learning.
"First victim located," Peterson reported from somewhere to my left. "Northeast corner, partial entrapment."
I clicked my radio in acknowledgment, already moving toward his position. The extra weight of my gear dragged at muscles strained from too many laps, miles, and hours pushing past normal limits. But normal hadn't been an option since the first letter appeared in my locker.
The first warning sign was subtle—a fractional hitch in airflow, the kind of momentary resistance that could be a regulator shift or bad angle.
I adjusted my seal, dismissing it asfatigue playing tricks on me.Get through the drill. Stay sharp. Control your breathing.
Then, the next breath didn't come. A second of hesitation. Then another.The air delivery stalled, like a hand tightening around my throat. My bodyknew before my brain did.
A wave of cold panic surged through my limbs, seizing my chest before my mind registered what was going on. I sucked in again—nothing. Spots exploded across my vision.
"Lieutenant?"Barrett's voice crackled in my ear, distant, distorted."We've got a problem with the ventilation route. The corridor's—"
I tried to respond, butmy throat locked around nothing. My bodywas screaming for air, but the regulator only fed me emptiness. I pressed a hand to my chest as if I could physically push air back in.
Not now. Not here. Get control. Override your instincts.
Panic flooded my nervous system. "Mayday, mayday," Iforcedout between strangled gasps, the wordsscraping raw across my throat."Air emergency, second floor—"
The gap since my last breath stretched like pulled taffy. My hands moved through emergency procedures even as more spots danced at the edges of my vision. My chest heaved, straining for air that wasn't coming—and then suddenly, I wasn't there.
Suddenly,I wasn't in the tower anymore.
Water closed over my head,icy and absolute. Pressure crushed my chest. My limbs flailed, but I couldn't reach the surface. It was gone.
The world was chlorine blue—endless, suffocating, and inescapable. Six or even eight hands pressed against my chest, forcing me down.
I was seven years old in the pond behind Tom Rogers' house, the neighborhood bully. The older boys laughed as they held me under. I kicked, thrashed, and fought, but they didn't loosen their grip.
The cold of the water seeped straight into my bones. My lungs were on fire, and I tried to scream, but it caused water to rush in, filling my mouth, filling me. I was dying.
Breathe.A voice—Dad's voice—filtered through the rush of blood in my ears.
I jerked, the illusion snapping apart like glass shattering.
"Lieutenant!"
It was a different voice—a real voice. My bodyjerked violentlyas something yanked me back to reality.
I wason my kneesin the tower, hands clawing at my chest, my SCBA mask still fused to my face.The burning in my lungs was real. The weight crushing my chest was real. The air wasn't coming.
My hands movedsluggishly, disconnected from my body,struggling tofind the seal release. My vision narrowed to a pinpoint while my body shuddered, systems failing.
This is how it happens. This is how he wants me to go.
Finally, my fingers found the latch. I tore the mask free. Raw air slammed into my throat, flooding my oxygen-starved lungs with violent relief. The first inhale was too much. It made me double over, coughing, choking, retching.
A hand gripped my shoulder. I blindly swung a fist out of pure instinct before recognizing Peterson's voice. "I've got you!" Hesteadied me, the grip solid, real, and grounding. "Jesus, Marcus! What happened?"
I couldn't answer immediately. My body was too busy remembering how to breathe normally, each inhale reminding me of the bitter taste of calculated malice. The regulator dangled from its compromised strap, the modification subtle enough to pass casual inspection but devastating in practice.
When I could finally speak, my voice was rough like sandpaper. "Clear the tower. Now. This is a crime scene."
I barely registered Petersonhalf-dragging me toward clean air. My knees buckled, but he held firm.
