Page 161 of Controlled Burn
She had to lead.
Her hands only trembled when she was alone.
In front of the crew, she made herself steel.
The call came in at 11:48—a dryer fire at a 24-hour laundromat. Nothing flashy. But it was her first time commanding before the chief arrived.
She rode the front right seat of Ladder 12 like she was born for it. Her voice was a blade—sharp, unyielding, slicing through the nerves in her belly.
“Reyes, Kennedy—interior search. Brent and Elijah—fire attack. Brooks—ventilation, rear. Now.”
Brooks hesitated. Slow to move. Eyes gleaming with insolence.
Talia squared her shoulders. “Ventilation.Now.”
He moved, but not before muttering under his breath. She caught it:Don’t trip on your heels, Lieutenant.
Her jaw flexed, but she didn’t bite. He wanted a crack. She gave him none.
Smoke curled up from the laundromat like a warning—black and sticky. Inside, heat rolled like a wave as Kennedy pushed forward with Reyes. Talia caught the rookie’s slight stumble, the way her breath hitched before she forced herself through. Brave. Fragile. And still moving.
Cross to Command:Primary all-clear. Dryer fire isolated. Overhaul is in progress. All other units can be available other than Company 12.
Her voice didn’t shake.
McKenna watched from the periphery, arms crossed, that proud little smirk.
“They’re watching—and she’s doing it anyway,” McKenna murmured, more to herself than anyone.
When Talia got back, there was a note in her locker.
Typed. Folded. Unsigned.
You’re not untouchable. None of you are.
She stared at it for a long time—until the threat lost its sting and became just another challenge.
Then she ripped it in half and stuffed the pieces into Brooks’s turnout pocket.
Let him find it. Let him wonder if she’d slipped something else in next time.
Let him know she saw him coming.
She was done hiding.
Maddox
The bar was empty—just a couple of regulars and a bartender who didn’t ask questions.
Neon lit the bottles, casting everything in sickly green and pink.
Dean sat at the far end, cradling a glass that burned less than the ache in his chest. Still wearing his department sweatshirt, faded and stained. The ghost of his old life clinging to the fabric.
He didn’t know how he’d gotten there. Didn’t care.
He drank until his hands stopped shaking.
It didn’t help.
