Chapter Three:

"Into the Fire"

The siren was dead. The old speakers, bolted to the rusted frame of what used to be a firetruck, had blown out long ago. Not that it would have made a difference. No one in this city cared about fire anymore. Not when there were too many people packed into spaces built for half their number. Not when every day felt like it was already burning.

Keira O’Connell braced against the violent jolt of the truck as it lurched forward, the brakes screeching in protest. Their so-called “fire engine” was a Frankenstein of stolen parts, its tank barely able to hold enough water to make a difference. The hoses leaked, the ladder had to be cranked by hand, and the engine stuttered like a dying thing. Still, it was the best they had.

Boston’s streets weren’t designed for this many people. Thousands of bodies clogged the roads, spilling from crumbling buildings, sifting through garbage, trading whatever scraps they had left. The city was suffocating under its own weight, and no one was in a hurry to move out of the way for a fire that wasn’t their problem.

Keira leaned out of the window, scanning the chaotic mass of humanity in front of them.

“Move!” she shouted. “Fire response!”

Nothing. A few people glanced up, blank, unbothered. A man hawking wilted vegetables from a rickety cart barely looked up before continuing his sales pitch. A woman in a tattered jacket stepped into the street, daring them to hit her. The others? They didn’t even bother acknowledging the truck at all.

No one cared.

No one had cared for a long time.

Keira slammed her fist against the rusted door. “Dammit, we’re not gonna make it.”

“Hold on!” The driver, a short stout man everyone just called Duke, rammed his foot against the gas. The engine coughed, tires shrieked, and the truck lurched forward in a jerking spasm. Bodies scattered at the last possible second, some cursing, others throwing half-hearted kicks at the metal.

They were close now. Keira could see the smoke curling into the sky, thick and black, smothering the skeletal remains of a once-thriving district. The fire had taken hold of an apartment block, one of the old ones, built before Boston had become a human landfill.

A scream cut through the air. A real one this time.

Not just another street fight. Not just another desperate plea swallowed by the city’s indifference.

Keira grabbed her gear. What was left of it.

The jacket, scorched and patched more times than she could count, weighed on her shoulders like memory. The helmet was old, the visor scratched to hell, and the oxygen mask was more for comfort than function. It wouldn’t last long in that inferno.

It didn’t matter.

She had to go in.

The moment her boots hit the pavement, she was moving. Instinct took over. She didn’t need orders, there were no orders here. No real fire departments. No chain of command. Just volunteers who ran toward the flames because if they didn’t, no one else would.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The heat hit first. It always did. Not just warmth, but pressure, like the fire itself was alive, pushing back against her presence. Smoke swam through the air, thick and bitter. It clung to her throat, to her skin, reaching into her lungs with something that had no name but always left a taste of death.

She barely noticed. Fire had been part of her life for too long.

She had been eight years old when she learned how to move through it. When the walls of her childhood home had become a cage of flame and smoke. When her mother, once a firefighter herself, had succumbed to her demons with drink and let a cigarette slip from her fingers.

Keira still remembered the way the intensely hot air felt, the way the heat climbed up her legs, biting through her pajama pants. She had known, somehow, that panicking meant death. That she had to move low, to avoid the worst of the heat and smoke. That she had to find her little brother, had to get him out.

She had known how to stop, drop, and roll when the fire reached her. She had known how to find pockets of air in the thickest smoke. And she had known, knew, even now, that she could predict the fire’s path.

It was a sixth sense. A gift.

A curse.

She pushed forward. Past the collapsed entryway, past the twisted metal and burning drywall. Bodies littered the floor, barely recognizable as human. The smell of charred flesh turned her stomach, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Movement caught her eye. A moment of hesitation gripped her, a memory, sharp and unrelenting. Her mother’s silhouette wreathed in flames, the way her outstretched hand never quite made it.

But not this time.

A child. A boy. Small, coughing, clinging to the remains of a shattered bedframe.

Keira didn’t think. She grabbed him, tucking his body close, shielding him as best she could. His breathing was shallow, rapid. Terror in its purest form.

“I got you,” she murmured, voice steady even as the fire snarled around them. “Just hold on.”

The way out was a blur of heat, smoke, and instinct. Every second a fight against the consuming fire, against the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her limbs.

Air hit her lungs, sharp and cold. Her legs buckled, muscles screaming in protest. She had pushed too hard, moved too fast. Just for a second, she let herself feel it, let the weight of exhaustion pressed down before she forced herself upright again. The night rushed in, cold and sharp, as she stumbled free of the inferno. The child clung to her, his tiny fingers digging into the fabric of her ruined jacket. He was alive.

A small victory in a city where victory was rare.

Duke was waiting, his face lined with sweat and soot. His jaw tensed, lips pressing together like he was swallowing whatever words wanted to escape. Finally, he let out a breath. “Feels like a goddamn funeral march.” He looked at Keira, then at the child, exhaling slowly, like he was trying to convince himself this was still worth it. He wasn’t her captain, there were no captains anymore, but they had been doing this long enough that words weren’t needed.

She followed his gaze upward. Across the street, a woman knelt beside a motionless child, shaking his small shoulders. Her lips moved, pleading, but there was no sound. No movement. No help coming.

A projection burst to life, swallowing the burning building whole, draping its neon paradise over real-world destruction. The fire raged beneath it, windows bursting, embers spiraling upward, lost in the artificial glow.

Enter The Ultimate Dive.

The image was impossibly clear, unnervingly vivid, a world of sprawling green fields, endless blue skies, so pristine it felt like an insult against the charred ruin below. Live in paradise before you die.

In the center of it all, smiling like a goddamn vacation rep, was the depiction of the AI that would control The Dive, Gameweaver. Hands outstretched, welcoming, like she was selling salvation to the damned.

“You’re doing it, aren’t you?” Duke’s voice was quiet. Tired. “The Dive.”

Keira exhaled, fingers brushing over the lighter in her pocket. The old one. The one with the faded four-leaf clover. The one that lit that fateful cigarette that night.

“I have to,” she said. “This city is already on fire. No one even notices anymore.” Her fingers curled around the lighter in her pocket, feeling the worn edges of the clover. “If I can survive The Dive, I can make them see again. Make them care again.”

Duke was silent for a long time. Then, he reached into his pocket, pulling out his own Gamepass. He turned it over, watching the way it caught the neon light.

“I got mine,” he admitted. “Still don’t know if I have the balls to use it.”

Keira glanced back at the fire. At the city that had long since given up on saving itself.

“Well,” she said. “You’ve got two more days to decide.”