Steam whispered through collapsed rafters, carrying particles that coated the back of my throat. The last crews cycled through overhaul, their tools scraping against debris in that familiar rhythm that usually meant we'd won. Usually, it meant we'd beaten whatever had tried to destroy the place.
In this case, we hadn't won anything. The factory burned precisely as someone planned—not enough to collapse, but enough to deliver whatever message they'd choreographed into its ruins.
"Lieutenant?" Peterson called across the debris field, uncertainty threading through his usual confidence. I turned to find him crouched near what had been a support column, hisheadlamp cutting through the lingering haze. "Can you verify something?"
The hesitation in his tone set off warning bells. Peterson was solid—fifteen years of service, and nothing rattled him. But now his hands hovered over something in the ash like he didn't entirely trust what he was seeing.
I picked my way across the factory floor, each step measured against unstable footing. The debris shifted beneath my boots, creating hollow sounds that echoed off warped metal. Peterson hadn't moved, still frozen in that careful crouch that told me he found something that didn't belong.
"Tell me what I'm looking at." My voice was neutral and professional, even as unease crawled up my spine.
"That's just it, sir." Peterson's headlamp focused on a cleared space in the wreckage. "It doesn't make sense. In this area, the burn goes cold right here. Like something was protected. And then we found..."
He gestured to what looked like a book, its edges darkened but its core somehow intact. Even before I got closer, my gut twisted with recognition. The size, the shape, and the way it sat perfectly centered in its pocket of devastation gave it away.
"Is that what I think it is?"
Peterson nodded slowly. "Standard issue training manual. Old edition—the kind they phased out more than five years ago, but sir..." He swallowed hard. "You need to see the inside."
I crouched beside him, ash crunching under my knees. The manual's cover bore precise, patterned scorch marks.
"The burns are deliberate." Peterson's voice dropped lower. "Each one marks specific sections. And the name inside—"
The sight of the familiar handwriting knocked the breath out of me. It was twelve years since I'd seen it, but I'd know the careful block letters anywhere. Dad had always insisted onmarking his manuals clearly, drilling into us the importance of taking pride in our equipment.
"That's impossible." My voice was thin and distant. "This was in storage. In a locked box at the station. It can't—"
"It is." James appeared beside us, his presence both steadying and unsettling. The professor's usual precise movements were sharper, edged with something that might have been anger. "Which means they have access to more than your training routes."
I shoved the manual at him, needing it away from my hands before I crushed it. The urge to destroy evidence warred with years of training. "Look at the name."
James handled it with that careful attention he brought to every piece of evidence, but I saw the moment understanding hit. His fingers rested on the scorched pages, and that furrow appeared between his brows. "These patterns aren't random. Each mark highlights specific sections about—"
"Endurance training. Heat resistance." The words nearly choked me. "Everything Dad drilled into us about pushing past normal limits."
James turned each page with methodical precision. "The dispersal of the incendiary agent creates specific patterns around each highlighted section. Look—"
"Show me." I crowded closer, ash crunching under my boots. The factory's ruins groaned around us as metal cooled and contracted.
"These burns outline the sections about pushing physical limits." James's academic tone cracked slightly. "But it's the margin notes that matter. See how they've added their observations? Comparing your father's training methods to your current routines?"
He was right. Cramped handwriting filled the spaces around Dad's old highlights, creating a twisted commentary oneverything from breathing techniques to recovery times. My stomach lurched as I recognized observations from my most recent training sessions.
James's voice dropped lower. "It's about your family now."
"Stop." The word came out sharp enough to make Peterson take a step back.
"Marcus—"
"Don't analyze this like it's just another piece of evidence." My hands clenched at my sides. "That's my father's writing. His manual. His—"
"I know." James didn't retreat despite my tone. "But if we don't understand what they're trying to tell us—"
"Tell us?" Something snapped inside me. "They stole his manual from storage. Marked it up like some sick research paper. Used his own words to—" I broke off, dragging a hand through my hair.
"You'retoo close to this."
"Of course, I'm too fucking close."I stepped into James's space, the heat from the fire still trapped between us."They're turning everything he taught me into their performance piece. Using his death as part of their artistic vision."
