"Which is exactly why you need to step back."James didn't flinch, but his voice softened—not with pity, but something sharper."Because if you don't, they win twice. First, by burning the building. Then by burning you down with it."
That hit differently. Not clinical. Not distant. Just truth.
"My father didn't raise me to back down."I swallowed hard."I don't get to step back."
James took a breath, his hands tightening on the scorched manual."No, he raised you to survive. But survival isn't the same as running yourself into the ground to prove you're invincible."
Something cracked.
"You think this is about proving something?"My laugh was bitter but thinner, too."This isn't about me being invincible. It's about not letting his death be for nothing."
James's eyes softened, just a flicker."His death wasn't nothing, Marcus. It mattered because he mattered. Not because of how you carry it like a weight on your back. You think your grief is a tribute, but all it's doing is chaining you to the past."
I blinked.
"And what about you?"I shot back, not ready to sit with the sting of his words."You analyze evidence because it's safer than facing what's broken inside you."
James flinched just slightly. Then, he stepped closer, closing the space between us like a challenge.
"Maybe. But at least I'm not confusing grief with purpose."His words were quiet, lethal in their precision."You're not your father's shadow, Marcus. But you sure as hell act like it's the only thing that defines you."
Silence hung between us, heavy and charged.
Then softer, James added,"I'm not trying to pull you away from this. I'm trying to remind you there's more to you than this."
And for the first time, I didn't have an answer.
The factory's broken walls creaked around us, a counterpoint to my pulse hammering in my ears. James still held the manual like it was precious and dangerous, his fingers tracing absent patterns on its scorched cover.
"I can't step back from this. I won't."
"I know." Something in his expression cracked slightly. "But I can't watch you become their masterpiece because you're too stubborn to let someone help you."
"James—"
"So either trust me to do my job," he cut me off, "or tell me to walk away now. Because I can't keep pretending this is just professional anymore."
Movement caught my eye—a shadow in the second-floor window. Not the shifting dark of debris settling or steam rising, but someone watching. They stood perfectly framed against the broken glass like they wanted me to see them. Like they were waiting for my reaction.
My body launched into motion before conscious thought caught up. Training kicked in as I sprinted toward the building's entrance, calculating paths through structural damage even as adrenaline flooded my system. The factory's layout unfurled in my mind—central stairwell, second-floor access points, possible escape routes.
"Marcus!" James's voice followed me, but I was already through the doorway.
The ground floor was a maze of fallen beams and firefighting debris. Steam still rose from puddles where our hoses had fought the blaze, creating pockets of artificial fog that caught in my throat. My boots gripped the wet concrete as I wove through the obstacle course of our earlier battle.
The stairwell emerged from the gloom—but it might as well have been Everest.My boots hit the first step, and my thighs nearly gave out beneath me.I gritted my teeth and forced my body upward, dragging myself step by step.
The metal groaned under my weight, warped by heat but still intact. Halfway up,a sharp cramp locked up my calf, the muscle spasming so hard I stumbled. My knee cracked against the stairs, white-hot pain lancing up my leg.I sucked in a breath, shoved past it, and kept moving.If I stopped now, I wouldn't start again.
Wet ash sucked at my boots as I cleared the second floor. The space opened into what had been an office area, nowtransformed into a gallery of smoke damage and structural collapse. Broken windows created weird cross-drafts that moved steam and shadow in unpredictable patterns.
"Fire Department!" My voice echoed off scorched walls. "Show yourself!"
Nothing. Only the settling sounds of a burned-out building and my harsh breathing.
I moved deeper into the space, scanning for signs of recent movement. Years of fire scene investigation had taught me to read stories in disturbed debris. There were footprints in the ash, too fresh to be from our initial attack. The pattern was wrong for firefighting boots, showing someone who understood how to move through unstable terrain but wasn't wearing standard gear.
The trail led toward the building's north side. Each step carried me farther from backup, safety, and reasonable protocol.
