It started with the smell.

Not the crisp, clean burn of training fuel or the distant wisp of controlled backfires. This was different—chemical, aggressive, wrong.

I was halfway through my shift in the engine bay, trying to focus on recalibrating oxygen tanks, pretending the last forty-eight hours hadn't shattered the fragile thing between me and Rafe.

But the scent made my stomach twist.

Then came the alarm.

Not the usual alert. This one came from inside the building.

"Internal fire detection triggered – Sector C."

The kitchen.

Then came the boom.

A deep, chest-rattling thud that knocked a helmet from its perch and sent a blast of heat sweeping through the bay doors.

I bolted.

The hallway was thick with smoke, black and hungry, curling like it had teeth. Lights flickered. Sprinklers stuttered. Shouts echoed through the chaos—familiar voices: Quinn, Captain Harlow, even Torres yelling for a hose team.

But my eyes searched for one person.

Rafe.

I rounded the corner to the kitchen—flames licked the ceiling. Cabinets buckled. A gas line hissed dangerously in the back wall, spitting sparks. Someone had rigged this—accelerants planted, ventilation compromised.

This wasn't an accident.

The arsonist had come for us.

"Celeste!"

I turned. Rafe was charging through the haze, mask half-secured, axe in hand. He was limping slightly, a cut bleeding down his temple, but his eyes—those eyes—burned with the same intensity as the inferno behind him.

"You have to help me get Harlow out—he's pinned in the breakroom!"

We didn't hesitate. Didn't argue. The betrayal, the anger—it all dissolved beneath the urgency.

We kicked in the door. Flames shot across the ceiling like hell's ceiling fan. Harlow lay beneath a half-collapsed metal table, one leg twisted beneath a beam. Rafe dove, lifting it with a grunt. I crouched, yanking our captain out as the fire roared louder, closer.

The wall groaned.

"We have fifteen seconds!" Rafe barked.

We dragged Harlow into the corridor just as the room behind us erupted—flashover. The point of no return. The air itself caught fire.

Outside, sirens wailed. Other stations were arriving, but Station 42 was already bleeding.

I dropped to my knees on the pavement as EMTs swarmed Harlow. My lungs burned. My arms trembled.

And beside me, Rafe stood silent, staring at our scorched station.

"This was targeted," he muttered. "They're not just sending messages anymore. They're making it personal."

My chest tightened. "Who would—?"

He looked at me then. And something in his gaze wasn't anger anymore. It was fear.

Not for himself.

For me.

"I think this has always been about you, Celeste."