"You with me?" Peterson's voice cut through the haze. "Marcus, stay with me, man."
I swayed on my feet, my hands shaking.Not from exertion. Not from lack of air. From something colder. Someone made me live through my worst nightmare. And they wanted me to remember it.
Walsh found me sitting on the engine's bumper twenty minutes later, an oxygen mask hanging unused around my neck while Sarah's forensics team documented every inch of my compromised equipment. The familiar weight of my captain's hand on my shoulder didn't quite mask how his fingers trembled.
"The release mechanism was modified." Sarah used the fully neutral tone she reserved for her worst cases. Her gloved hands turned my regulator under harsh work lights, revealing the careful precision of the tampering. "See this scoring on the metal? Someone filed it down just enough to create resistance under pressure. It wouldn't show during normal checks, but in a high-stress situation..."
"They wanted me to feel it gradually," I said. "Wanted me to realize what was happening while I couldn't do anything about it."
The bay doors stood open, letting in air. Barrett hovered at the equipment alcove. I caught Rivera watching me with the intensity of someone remembering his own close calls.
"They had to have access to our equipment." Walsh's voice roughened. "Had to know our protocols, our maintenance schedule. This isn't just—"
"This isn't about watching anymore. They wanted to experience it with me. Wanted to feel what I felt."
Sarah's evidence camera clicked, documenting every angle of the sabotage. The flash burned against my retinas, too similar to the spots that had danced in my vision during those endless seconds without air. My hands wouldn't stop shaking, though I'd buried them deep in my turnout coat pockets.
"Lieutenant?" Barrett approached slowly, holding a tablet. "The security footage—there's something you need to see."
The video quality was grainy, but the timestamp showed yesterday's early morning hours. A figure in regulation turnout gear moved through the equipment check area with practiced familiarity. Nothing about their movements would trigger suspicion—just another firefighter going through normal protocols.
Except.
"They're wearing station boots," I said, focusing on the details to keep my voice steady. "But look at how they move. That's not someone used to carrying gear weight."
Walsh leaned closer to the screen. "Can we enhance—"
"Already tried." Barrett's finger traced the figure's path. "But watch this part. When they reach for your regulator, see how their hand moves. That's medical precision. Like a surgeon handling instruments."
The observation was like a roundhouse punch. I remembered James's voice from the warehouse scene: "These modificationsfollow the same principles as surgical cauterization. They're treating the building like a body."
My phone buzzed—a text from Michael asking about dinner plans. The normalcy of it was almost obscene against the evidence of how deeply someone had infiltrated my world. I started to respond, then stopped as Barrett cleared her throat.
"There's more." She swiped to another video segment. "They came back. After completing the modification, they spent twelve minutes just... watching. Standing in front of your locker, completely still."
The figure on screen remained motionless, face hidden by regulation gear, while the timestamp crawled forward. Studying. Memorizing. Claiming the space through silent observation.
"Get this to James. He needs to see the behavioral patterns and the technical elements. I need—"
A rookie burst through the bay doors, breathless. "Lieutenant? There's something on your truck. Your personal vehicle."
Rare Seattle afternoon sun had baked my truck's interior to a suffocating heat, reeking of hot vinyl and something else—a sharp, medical smell that didn't belong. A pristine envelope sat perfectly centered on my driver's seat, its cream-colored paper almost luminescent against the dark upholstery.
"Don't touch it." Sarah appeared beside me, already pulling on fresh gloves. "The last thing we need is cross-contamination from—"
"From the gear incident." The words caught in my throat, raw and jagged. "They're connected. They have to be."
The envelope's seal parted under Sarah's careful handling. Inside, sheets of expensive paper documented my most recent training sessions in meticulous detail. The handwriting was different from previous letters—no more artistic flourishes or carefully chosen stationery. This was clinical documentation, each entry marked with timestamps and performance metrics.
0447: Subject begins warm-up (butterfly kicks, 4x50m). Form shows deterioration in left deltoid engagement—likely compensating for previous day's ladder drills. Breathing pattern maintains 1:3 ratio despite obvious fatigue.
0512: Main set commences. Target heart rate achieved at 162 bpm. Subject pushes through lactic acid accumulation with characteristic determination. The way pain reshapes his movements is exquisite.
Red ink annotations filled the margins, analyzing every aspect of my technique with the precision of a coach or a coroner. The writing grew more intense as the entries continued, professional distance fracturing into something more personal.
"Subject's discipline is remarkable. Even through exhaustion, each movement follows established patterns. The way he embraces discomfort, uses it to fuel transformation... Soon he'll be ready. Soon he'll understand how fire and water can reshape flesh into something transcendent."
"Marcus." Sarah's voice cut through the roaring in my ears. "We should get this to the lab. The paper composition might help—"
