The smell of smoke is sharper than I expect. It's not like campfire smoke or the damp, sticky haze of burnt leaves. It's chemical and bitter, curling into my throat and lungs even from blocks away. My stomach twists as I pick up speed, sprinting toward the alley that cuts through the row of homes. The dark brick walls blur on either side of me, but my focus stays locked ahead.

Kate's house is on fire.

I knew things were bad--fires cropping up across the city, a chaos of sirens and screaming--but this is different. This isn't random. Aaron knows. Somehow, he knows.

The street where her house sits feels impossibly still compared to the buzz of adrenaline in my chest. I cut down the alley, my sneakers scraping against uneven pavement. The buildings crowd me on either side, their brick facades radiating residual heat from the fire up ahead. I can feel it now, a furnace glow against my skin even before I make the turn.

When I do, the sight stops me cold.

Kate's house is a rowhome like the others, but the fire is already claiming it. The flames pour out through the second-story windows, bright and hungry against the cold night. It's a traditional fire--yellow-orange tongues curling out into the air, with none of Aaron's signature colors. That doesn't make it less terrifying. If anything, it feels worse, because it blends in. Ordinary. A fire you could explain away as accidental.

Except it's not.

"How?" I mutter under my breath, barely aware of the words. "How could he know?"

I shake it off, my mind snapping back to the present as I pull out my phone and hit the number for Crossroads. My thumb hovers as I glance toward the distant sound of sirens, nowhere close enough.

The line picks up on the second ring. "Sam?" Crossroads's voice is sharp, tight with the kind of urgency that makes me feel like he's been waiting for this call.

"House fire in Mayfair," I say, my words coming out too fast, too clipped. "It's bad. Kate Smith's house. I'm here, but I need backup. Please--dispatch the DVD. Anyone."

"On it," he says, and I can hear the rapid clack of keys on a laptop. "Where exactly?"

"Revere and Longshore," I say, forcing my voice to steady. "I'm going in. I'll keep you updated."

"Wait--" he starts, but I hang up. There's no time to wait for his reassurances, no time for anything but moving forward.

The fire hasn't spread to the neighboring homes yet--not visibly, at least--but that won't last long. Rowhomes are basically matchboxes when a fire gets going, as my father taught me once when I accidentally set the oven ablaze trying to make brownies. Kate's house is the epicenter, its second story engulfed while the first simmers with flickering light behind the windows. The outside walls hold, their brick stained with soot but unyielding. That's the thing about these old homes--they're stubborn, even when they're dying.

My mask slides into place with a sharp tug, the filter locking into position as I activate the oxygen supply. The air flows in cool and clean, and I take a deep breath, centering myself. Limited resources. No backup yet. High likelihood of collapse if I screw this up.

The tactical side of my brain kicks in automatically.

The fire looks like it started inside, probably one of the upstairs bedrooms based on the flames bursting from those windows first. It's spread fast--faster than it should have--but not impossibly so. The old wood framing under the plaster walls would've lit up like a Christmas tree once the fire breached the surface. And judging by the way the smoke billows, thick and choking, something synthetic--carpet, upholstery--is fueling it now. The acrid edge cuts through even the mask's filter, stinging my eyes.

"Hello?" A voice snaps me out of my assessment. A man stumbles into view, his silhouette wavering against the hellish backdrop of the flames. "Help! My--my daughter, she's--"

Kate's dad.

He's barefoot, dressed in sweatpants and a stained T-shirt that clings to his chest. His face is streaked with soot, his hair matted and wild. He stares at the house like he's seeing the fire for the first time, his body trembling as if it's not sure whether to move toward it or collapse.

"She's still inside," he says, his voice cracking. His hands are raw, red, clearly burnt and blistered, but he barely seems to notice. "Upstairs. Bedroom. I tried--I couldn't get her--"

The words hit me like a fist to the chest. Kate. Inside. Upstairs.

"Stay here," I say, my voice firm but not unkind. He doesn't seem to register the words, his eyes glued to the flames, his breathing shallow and erratic. I step closer, putting myself directly in his line of sight. "Hey! Look at me!"

His eyes snap to mine, wide and glassy.

"I'm going to get her," I say. "I need you to stay here. I need you to..."

I consult my thoughts. I look around, and I think. If Kate's upstairs...

"Get a blanket from a neighbor. Get the neighbors," I say, watching as people begin to flow out of their homes like water, trickling in an even stream out onto the street.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

He nods, a jerky, disjointed motion that makes me doubt he even heard me. But there's no time to double-check. The fire isn't slowing down, and Kate's upstairs.

I glance back at the house, my mind running through the checklist of tools in my bag. Oxygen mask, check. Fire blanket, check. Extinguisher pellets--six of them, no more. Each one can clear a patch of fire for maybe thirty seconds before it reignites. Enough for a small room, not a burning house.

The front door is a no-go. The flames pouring from the windows have already weakened the frame, and the heat coming off the wood is enough to make me step back even from the sidewalk. The side alley between the homes is tight--so tight I have to turn sideways to squeeze through--but the rear kitchen window might give me an opening.

I move quickly, my shoulder brushing against the brick as I navigate the narrow path. The sound of the fire is deafening up close--a constant roar, punctuated by sharp cracks as the wood gives way. Every step is measured, deliberate, the soles of my shoes crunching against shattered glass and charred debris.

The kitchen window is shattered, jagged edges glinting in the firelight. Smoke pours out in heavy waves, but I can see inside--a cluttered countertop, a fridge scorched but still standing, the faint outline of the back stairs leading up.

I squeeze one of the foam pellets and aim for the center of the window frame before I pitch. The pellet bursts on impact, spraying a fine mist of suppressant foam that clings to the edges of the fire like wet snow. It won't last long, but it's enough to buy me a path inside.

The heat hits me like a wall as I climb through the window, the oxygen mask straining to keep the air breathable. Every surface inside is charred, blackened with soot, and the firelight dances wildly off the reflective edges of broken appliances. The stairs are just ahead, but the fire's already licking at their base, orange and yellow flames consuming the wood like a living thing.

I can still hear the crackle of the fire, the low groans of the house as it begins to weaken under the heat. Upstairs feels impossibly far away, but I force myself to move. One step at a time. One breath at a time.

I can do this.

The heat hits me the second I climb through the shattered kitchen window. Even with the oxygen mask filtering out most of the smoke, the oppressive warmth is everywhere, clinging to my skin, soaking through my hoodie. I stay low, crouching on the scorched tile floor, the rough texture scraping against my knees. The air smells of burnt plastic and chemicals, every breath carrying a sting that makes my eyes water.

The kitchen feels wrong. The familiar space--a place I used to sneak cookies and tease Kate about her overly organized fridge--is alien now, transformed by fire. The countertops are warped, their laminate surfaces peeling back like burnt paper. The fridge hums faintly, the sound discordant against the constant crackle of flames licking at the walls. The cabinets have been blackened, their edges crumbling into ash that floats on the hot air like snowflakes.

Everything here used to make sense. Now it's a maze, every step forward unsure, every surface too hot to trust.

I inch toward the back stairs, staying as low as I can. The fire is hungry, its flames devouring the base of the wooden steps. The heat radiates outward, forcing me to pause, to reassess. Every instinct tells me to charge forward, but I know better. Fire doesn't care about urgency. It doesn't care about me. It eats, and it eats, and it keeps eating until there's nothing left.

The extinguisher pellets are my only real weapon here, and even those feel pitiful against the scope of this hell. I pitch another one, aiming carefully at the base of the stairs. The pellet bursts with a hiss, a fine mist of suppressant foam spraying over the flames. The fire recoils, shrinking back for a moment, and I use the window of time to move.

The stairs groan under my weight as I climb, the wood splintering slightly beneath my shoes. I keep one hand on the railing--what's left of it--and my head low. The oxygen mask is working overtime, but the smoke is relentless, seeping into every gap, clinging to my clothes and skin. My burns throb under the layers of bandages, a sharp reminder of how close I came to worse. I force the pain to the back of my mind, focusing on the task ahead.

Upstairs.

I need to get to Kate.

The second floor is a nightmare. The smoke is thicker here, a choking blanket that makes it hard to see more than a foot in front of me. The floorboards creak ominously under my weight, their stability a question I don't want to test. The hallway stretches out ahead of me, familiar and wrong all at once. I used to race Kate down this hall, our laughter echoing off the walls. Now it's unrecognizable, the wallpaper curling away in blackened ribbons, the once-bright carpet reduced to smoldering threads.

I move carefully, my hands brushing against the walls to guide me. The heat is worse here, the fire eating its way through the rooms around me. The crackle of flames is a constant backdrop, punctuated by sharp pops as the wood buckles under pressure. Somewhere behind me, a loud crash echoes--something collapsing downstairs. I don't look back.

I reach out with my blood sense, letting the familiar pulse guide me. The world shifts as it always does when I focus on it, the ambient noise of life narrowing to a single point, all the color draining in my mind's eye and turning into red-on-black. Kate's blood is close--too close. I feel it before I see her, a rhythm weaker than it should be, scattered like drops from a broken faucet.

My chest tightens. She's bleeding.

I round the corner, my blood sense leading me to her room. The door is slightly ajar, hanging crookedly on its hinges. I push it open with my shoulder, the movement sending a plume of smoke into the hallway. The room is worse than I expected. The fire hasn't fully consumed it yet, but the air is thick with heat and smoke, and the ceiling above groans ominously.

Kate is on the floor, slumped against the far wall. Her arms are limp, streaked with blood from jagged cuts that run lengthwise. I recognize them instantly, the pattern too deliberate to be anything but intentional. My stomach churns, a sharp ache that I don't have time to process. She's unconscious, her chest barely rising and falling with shallow breaths.

I cross the room in three strides, kneeling beside her. "Kate," I say, my voice muffled by the mask. "Kate, can you hear me?"

She doesn't respond. Her skin is pale, her lips tinged with blue. Smoke inhalation. She needs air, now.

I pull off my oxygen mask, the straps snapping free with a sharp tug. The smoke rushes into my lungs immediately, hot and acrid, but I ignore it. I press the mask to her face, adjusting it to form a seal over her nose and mouth. The oxygen flow hisses to life, and after a moment, her chest rises more steadily.

"Come on," I mutter, my fingers brushing against her wrist to check her pulse. It's weak, but it's there. I tighten the straps of the mask, making sure it stays in place. The fresh air will buy her time, but it leaves me with nothing. I cough, the smoke scratching at my throat, but I don't let go of her.

The fire's roar is louder now, closer. I glance back toward the hallway. The flames are licking at the edges of the doorway, their light casting frantic shadows across the walls. The stairs are already lost--I can feel it in the way the house groans, the way the floor beneath me trembles with the shifting weight.

Then I hear it.

A crack, sharp and definitive, followed by the unmistakable sound of wood splintering. The stairs collapse in on themselves, the sound echoing through the house like a death knell. My exit is gone.