Page 184 of Controlled Burn
Still burning.
Chapter 62
The Last Fire
Maddox
The weeks after Brooks’s arrest blurred into a storm of fallout—HR interrogations, FBI evidence teams, and media headlines that wouldn’t die. The station was gutted, locked down, heavy with whispers.
Dean kept to the edges. He filed his resignation, boxed up his locker, and handed his badge to the chief without fanfare.
But the chief surprised him—set the date for one week later, paperwork signed and dated.
“You get one last shift,” the chief said. “You’ve earned that much.”
So here he was. One more ride. No send-off, no speeches. Just the job. The only thing that ever made sense.
He was still technically a captain until midnight, though most of the crew already treated him like a ghost. He didn’t care. He just needed to be here.
They stuck him withLadder 12.His crew, his seat, one last time.
Outside, rain pattered on the bay doors. He stood for a moment in the empty apparatus floor, hand on the cool steel of the truck, listening to the building breathe—the groan of pipes, the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint echo of boots that weren’t his anymore.
It smelled like dust and diesel and endings.
Talia
Talia’s fingers scraped over the irons, metal biting through her gloves. She’d already checked them twice. It didn’t matter—she needed something to ground her.
The bay felt hollow, echoing with old ghosts: Maddox’s voice barking orders, King’s laughter, the constant rattle of boots. Now, only fluorescent hum and the groan of pipes.
When her TDY orders dropped, she hadn’t argued. Admin said Station 6 was short a lieutenant, and it didn’t take much reading between the lines. Keep her away from Maddox. Keep them separated. On paper, it was “temporary reassignment.” In truth, it was punishment with a smile.
She hadn’t slept. Not really. She’d lain on her bunk for hours, counting the breaths between distant calls, letting the memory of Dean’s hands—his scent, the bruise at his jaw—simmer beneath her skin.
The radio snapped her back:
“Engine 12, Ladder 6, Battalion 1—structure fire, confirmed entrapment. Ladder 12 already on scene.”
Her body moved before her mind caught up. Helmet, gloves, coat. Boots slamming tile, adrenaline punishing in her chest. Reyes already moving, Brent hauling gear, Bri from C-shift sliding into position, eyes sharp.
Talia threw herself into the rig. The world shrank to routines: SCBA straps, radio check, head bumping the roof as the trucklurched out. The city was shrouded by grey dawn, rain blurring the ugly orange glow on the horizon.
She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper.
Please, God. Let it be anyone else on 12. Not him. Not tonight.
Maddox
The scene was hell.
A two-story wood-frame, every window screaming fire. Flames pressed against the glass until it shattered outward, hurling sparks like shrapnel. The roof sagged in the middle, wood popping, groaning under its own weight.
The wind carried smoke in choking sheets, plastering it against civilians packed behind barricades. They held cell phones high, blue-lit faces reflecting panic and morbid awe.
Dean pulled his hood tighter, sweat already running down his back under the turnout. He barked to his crew, motioned for the rear, boots pounding mud and broken glass.
Then—chaos.
