Stay low.
Follow walls.
Basic training applies even when terrified.
We move together—coordinated pair with years of combined experience, navigating by touch and instinct through a familiar layout made alien by fire's transformation.
"TOM!" Aidric's voice carries through chaos. "CHIEF TOM, CALL OUT!"
Please respond.
Please be conscious enough to respond.
Please be alive to respond to.
Stairs appear through smoke—structural integrity questionable but still functional, leading toward the second floor where administrative offices wait.
His office.
Tom's office would be upstairs.
If he was working late, reviewing paperwork, caught off-guard?—
We climb—testing each step, distributing weight carefully, aware that collapse is an increasingly probable scenario.
The second floor is worse—flames are visible now, consuming walls and furniture with enthusiastic destruction. Heat intensifies to levels that make protective gear feel inadequate, that threaten equipment failure and human endurance simultaneously.
"TOM!" I add my voice to the search. "We're here! Call out if you can hear us!"
Movement—barely visible through smoke, a human-shaped shadow that might be a target or might be fire playing tricks.
We advance toward motion, emerging into what remains of the administrative hallway.
And there he is.
Chief Tom Rodriguez on his knees, posture suggesting injury or restraint, face reflecting terror and resignation in equal measure.
And standing behind him—gun pressed against Tom's head with casual malice?—
Gregory.
Gregory fucking Castellano.
In Montana.
In our station.
Holding our Chief at gunpoint while building burns around us.
"Well, well." His voice carries theatrical satisfaction. "The newly famous pack chief duo, arriving right on schedule. Playing heroes, attempting daring rescue, so predictably noble."
Stay calm.
Assess the situation.
Identify tactical options.
Don't let emotion override professional judgment.
