Page 45 of Knotting the Firefighters

I nod understanding, filing away information about their pack's internal hierarchy.

"I'll play nice. Until lives are at stake, then all bets are off."

"That's what I'm afraid of," he mutters, but he's grinning as he opens the door, revealing the scene beyond.

Smoke, flames licking from second-story windows, civilians gathered at safe distance, two fire trucks already positioned with crews deploying equipment with impressive efficiency despite their earlier chaos.

My chaos.

My commands transformed them from disaster to this functional response.

Pride swells unexpected and warm, reminding me why I loved this job enough to dedicate fifteen years to perfecting it.

I jump from the van, boots hitting pavement, turnout gear settling with familiar weight, purpose flooding my system like the most potent drug.

Let's see what Station Fahrenheit is made of.

COLLISION OF PAST AND PRESENT

~AIDRIC~

"—and I have every intention of being the Chief of Station Fahrenheit when Rodriguez officially retires, which means implementing protocols that actually?—"

The words die mid-sentence as I step through Station Fahrenheit's main entrance, my confident stride faltering at the scene that greets us.

Empty.

Completely, utterly, impossibly empty.

The apparatus bay—where two fully-equipped fire trucks and our transport van should be stationed—contains nothing but oil stains on pristine concrete and the lingering scent of diesel exhaust. The space echoes with absence, architectural acoustics amplifying the silence where there should be activity, voices, the ambient noise of operational fire station.

Tom Rodriguez pauses beside me, his weathered face creasing with confusion that mirrors my own. Silas stops on my other side, medical bag automatically clutched in one hand like he's perpetually prepared for emergencies that apparently evacuated the building without notification.

"Where—" Tom begins, but the question answers itself as movement draws our collective attention.

Three young Alphas occupy the common area like they're hosting the world's most peculiar daycare. Dax Mercer sits cross-legged on the floor, carefully bottle-feeding what appears to be a kitten cradled in his oversized hands. Flynn Ashford mirrors the position nearby, his own tiny charge nursing with enthusiastic dedication. Rook Callahan sprawls on the couch, grinning as the golden retriever—when did we acquire a dog?—engages in enthusiastic tug-of-war with a rope toy that's clearly losing the battle.

The tableau is so domestically absurd that my brain momentarily refuses to process it as reality.

"Where is everyone?" The question emerges sharper than intended, authority and confusion blending into something approaching demand.

Dax springs to his feet with impressive coordination considering the kitten situation, carefully transferring his charge to more stable surface before rushing over. He executes a slight head bob—not quite salute, but carrying similar respect—before launching into explanation that makes absolutely zero sense.

"The team responded to an emergency call, Captain." His hazel eyes are bright with enthusiasm, like he's reporting spectacular success rather than complete abandonment of standard protocols. "Chief Murphy requested full deployment—both trucks and the van."

Chief Murphy.

The name lands like physical impact, stealing breath with implications I'm not remotely prepared to examine.

"Chief Murphy," I repeat slowly, testing the words, trying to make them connect to the unconscious Omega I'd left in medical bay approximately ninety minutes ago. "As in Chief Wendolyn Murphy, who was connected to an IV and recovering from smoke inhalation?"

"Yes, Sir." Dax's grin widens, completely oblivious to the crisis currently detonating in my chest. "She was amazing, actually. Things were kind of... uh... chaotic when the alarm went off."

"Chaotic?" Silas interjects, his tone carrying the particular brand of skepticism reserved for significant understatements.

"Well," Dax hedges, suddenly looking sheepish, "we weren't exactly organized. The kittens were loose, gear wasn't secured properly, nobody could agree on vehicle assignments?—"

"Standard operational disaster," Flynn interrupts helpfully, still cradling his kitten. "But then Chief Murphy emerged from the elevator with Bear, took one look at the chaos, and just... commanded. Like, properly commanded. Got everyone suited up and loaded in under two minutes."