Page 49 of Flashover

A dozen others take up the call. Hands slap backs. Helmets lift.

It feels unreal—like stepping into a dream I barely dared to imagine back in that shelter. But this one smells like clean gear and second chances. I don’t smile. Not yet. I let it settle around me, steady and quiet, but I keep my spine straight, boots grounded. I’m not here for applause. I’m here to rebuild.

"At ease," I call out.

They snap into loose formation, posture sharp but relaxed.

"Today isn’t about me," I say. "It’s about what we survived—and what we learn from it."

The crowd quiets, heads nodding.

“You’ve all read the incident report. You’ve seen the drills. But let me tell you what wasn’t in those pages.

Back in Bitterroot, we had thirty seconds to evacuate a site after the wind turned, and the main fire crowned over a ridge we’d believed was stable. No protocol covered that scenario. No command chain acted fast enough. We had to rely on each other—on grit, speed, and the kind of trust that doesn’t come from a manual. I remember the moment one of our rookies, barely twenty, screamed that he smelled smoke behind the line. He didn’t wait for an order—he pulled two of his squadmates out of the burn zone with seconds to spare. That kid broke formation, but he saved lives.

That’s what I’m asking from you. Know your training. Don’t let it blind you—let it sharpen you.

What saved lives in that fire wasn’t protocol. It was instinct. It was trust.”

I pause, locking eyes with rookies I dragged out of hell.

“If one of you thinks something’s wrong? Speak up. If your gut says move? Move. And if you ever have to choose between procedure and people—choose people. Every time.”

No one speaks, but something changes—a shared breath, a silent understanding that settles deep in the spine.

Behind them, Chief Ruiz approaches, her gait clipped but not cold. She removes her helmet as she nears, jaw tight like she’s still chewing on her pride.

"Monroe."

"Chief."

She hesitates. Then... “I was wrong. About Bitterroot. About you."

I blink, caught off guard.

"You saved this team, this program, and a chunk of the damn county," she says. "The board wants to reinstate you as Lead Instructor. Effective immediately."

A beat.

Then applause again. Hoots. A whoop from the back. I spot Reyes near the end of the second row—one of the rookies who froze during the shelter breach drills just a month ago. Now he’s grinning ear to ear, hands raised high, yelling louder than anyone else. That change in him? That’s what this is all about.

Beside him, Teague does a fist pump, her face still streaked with soot from an early-morning burn scenario. She’d challenged me hard during her first week—cocky and smart as hell. Now her eyes are bright with something sharper than pride: respect.

And Ruiz? She doesn’t smile, not fully. But her chin dips, just once. A nod meant for me alone. A silent acknowledgment from a woman who doesn’t give them out lightly.

That’s when it hits. I’m not just back. I’m home.

I nod once, calm even though my throat's tight. "Thank you. I accept."

Ruiz doesn’t leave. "There’s more. We’re building a Rapid-Ignition Response Program." She pauses, then glances at the recruits still lingering in loose formation. "This was Kade's idea originally. Said if we wanted to stay ahead of the curve, we needed someone who’s already danced with the fire and lived to tell about it. Said that someone was you."

I blink. "He said that?"

"Didn’t hesitate," Ruiz replies. "Neither did I. The board fought me on it at first, but your record speaks louder than their caution now."

Her voice softens, just a touch. "Monroe, you took a hit no one else would’ve come back from. You could’ve walked away. But instead, you rebuilt from the ash. We don’t just want you leading this—we need you."

I absorb it in silence, the gravity settling deeper than any command ever has.

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