He walked through the burned house, the rubble crunching under his boots. The walls, blackened and charred, loomed like ghosts of a life once lived. As he passed, he tried to force the memories of his past out of his mind—the memories of that one night, the night he would regret for the rest of his life. But no matter how hard he tried, they came rushing back.
Smoke, flames, screams. The acrid stench of burning flesh filled his nose as the fire clung to him, its flames licking at his skin, searing him. But he kept going. He had to. On the fourth floor, he sprinted up the stairs to the fifth, flames engulfing the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. The building groaned, creaking and bending under the weight of the inferno.
The cries of the one trapped inside room 527 grew louder, closer. He ran faster. The door to the fifth floor was just ahead, and he charged toward it, ignoring the heat that threatened to consume him.
Then, just as he reached it...
“Cole?”
The voice pulled him back to the present. Evan Mercer, his partner, was shaking his shoulder.
“You alright?” Evan’s voice was laced with concern.
Cole blinked, disoriented, and shook his head slightly. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he lied, the words feeling hollow.
Evan studied him for a beat, then nodded. “If you say so. Come on, let''s go.”
Evan was younger than Cole, just barely past his mid-twenties, but he had an intensity about him that made him seem older. He wasn’t the loud, boisterous type, but when he spoke, his words were measured and calm, always with a purpose. His hair was dark and unruly, and his eyes carried a quiet curiosity that contrasted Cole’s more jaded outlook. He wasn’t as seasoned, but he had a determination that could sometimes border on stubbornness, something that reminded Cole of himself at that age.
They continued their investigation. Fortunately, the house had been abandoned before the fire, so no one had been injured—but the emptiness of the place unsettled him. As they moved through the charred remains, the evidence was pointing toward one thing: arson. After the fire that had changed everything eight months ago, he hated arsonists more than anything.
After a few hours of thoroughly checking for the fire’s cause, Evan looked up at him.
“What are you thinking, Cole?” he asked.
Cole met his gaze, his expression grave. “Arson. And I have a feeling the fire at the abandoned house last week was set by the same guy.”
“You think we’ve got a serial arsonist?”
Cole sighed. “Yeah, I think we do.”
Evan let out a long breath. “I was getting that feeling too. I was hoping I was wrong.”
They wrapped up their investigation, filed their reports, and headed back to the station. As Evan drove, Cole’s mind kept drifting back to the apartment fire, the one set by an arsonist.
Back then, he was a firefighter, part of one of the best crews in the state. On the night of July 30th, at 8:23 p.m., a call came in about a fire spreading fast. Cole and his crew raced to the scene, but by the time they arrived, the fire—originating on the second floor—had already reached the fourth. They fought hard to slow it down, but by the time they reached the fourth floor, it was already threatening the sixth and spreading through the roof.
The inferno was growing by the second. Cole went to the fifth floor, hearing cries for help behind a closed door. Room 527. Inside was a family of six—or so he thought. He rushed them out, getting them safely to the first floor and outside.
But just as he was about to go back in, one of them grabbed his arm.
“Maya’s still inside! She must’ve hidden somewhere! She’s only six!”
A cold wave of horror washed over him. He turned and ran back into the building, the heat growing more unbearable as he ascended. The stairs felt like a descent into hell. By the time he reached the fifth floor, the fire was everywhere. The ceiling above him was nothing but flames, and the structure groaned under the pressure.
Then he heard her—Maya’s terrified screams. He ran down the hall, the ceiling cracking and bending as he did. The supports above him were no more. The fire was swallowing everything.
The ceiling groaned.
The weight of it all pressed on him, but he kept running, faster and faster, toward the sound of her screams. And then…
“We’re here,” Evan’s voice broke through the flashback, grounding him in the present.
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They entered the station, the familiar scent of oil mingling with the rich aroma of coffee. Inside, the large garage was lined with five fire trucks parked in front of the massive garage doors. Along the left wall stood the lockers—each one holding a firefighter''s uniform. Cole walked between two fire engines, numbers 2 and 3—the one he used to drive. His eyes lingered on it briefly, memories of countless fires rising up, but he didn’t stop. Evan, up ahead, turned right.
After passing the trucks, he turned left and entered a door. Inside was the common area. A table sat in the center, surrounded by mismatched chairs. A TV hung in the corner, playing a muted news program. No one was around, but Cole didn’t mind the solitude.
He moved through the room, pushed open another door, and stepped into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, grabbed a ham sub and a Mountain Dew, returned to the table, and sat down. He ate in silence, the steady rhythm of chewing and swallowing the only sound. By 10:00, his shift was over, and he left for home.
Cole’s reflection stared back at him from the darkened glass of his car window as he sat in the driver’s seat, the hum of the engine the only sound in the still night. He looked older than his thirty-five years—his hair had thinned slightly at the temples, and the creases along his forehead had deepened over the past year. He’d lost weight, but the lines around his mouth still spoke of smiles long since faded. He hadn’t shaved in days, and the dark stubble didn’t suit him; it made him look even more tired than he already felt. His eyes, once sharp and full of life, now seemed distant, unfocused. His jaw tightened, but it didn’t help. He still couldn’t shake the feeling of the fire. It never left.
As he drove, the headlights cut through the darkness, passing by the old chemical plant. It loomed in the shadows, an ominous figure rising from the night. Rumors about the chemicals left behind after years of abandonment still circulated, but no one ever bothered to do anything about it. The place had become just another piece of the town’s forgotten history. Now, as Cole passed it, he couldn’t shake the feeling of it watching him, like it was waiting for something—waiting for him. He drove past it without slowing, the weight of the plant’s presence pressing against his chest, and continued toward home.
After parking in the garage, he went inside and headed to his office. The room was cluttered with papers, the latest stack detailing the recent fires. He sifted through them, each report adding weight to the gnawing feeling in his gut. The pattern had changed. What started as small fires—trash cans, dumpsters—had escalated into abandoned houses. And now, a larger, more dangerous escalation was waiting to happen.
Cole poured over the pages, his eyes scanning the details again, trying to find anything that could make sense of the chaos. Nearby, a map of the fires’ locations lay open, but it wasn’t helping. No discernible pattern. No neighborhoods targeted, no repeating locations. Just a scatter of dots across three counties, a chaotic web with no apparent connection. He added today’s fire to the map—a new dot, randomly placed, just like the others—a dead end.
Frustration gnawed at him as he leaned back in his chair and stared at the map. He knew the fires were connected, but the question was... how? He continued to study the papers, turning them over in his mind, desperate to find any trace of a pattern. Ten minutes passed with no progress, and eventually, he gave up. His head was spinning. He shut the folder and pushed it aside, then stood, drained and defeated.
He collapsed into bed, but sleep wouldn’t come easily. His mind was still trapped in the fires.
He was running through flames, but it felt like he was moving in slow motion. He couldn''t run fast enough, no matter how hard he pushed himself. Up ahead, he could hear her screams. The sound twisted his insides, the raw terror in her voice driving him forward. But nothing he did could speed him up. The fire surrounded him, thick and suffocating, its heat licking at his skin. He forced himself to move faster, to push through it.
Then he saw it up ahead. The door. Room 527. He could hear her screams through it—Maya.
“Maya!” he tried to yell, but his voice was swallowed by the roar of the fire, drowned by the fury of the flames. Her screams grew louder, more desperate. He forced himself forward, ignoring the searing heat, the crackling of the fire consuming everything around him. The ceiling groaned, and the floor trembled beneath him. He couldn’t stop now.
Just as he was about to reach the door, he stopped.
Why did he stop?
He needed to keep moving. Why wasn’t he moving?
He looked up. And that’s when it happened. The ceiling collapsed, sending flames crashing down and blocking the doorway completely. The floor beneath him groaned ominously, threatening to give way. The fire towered between him and the door. There was no way over, no way around.
Cole stood frozen, his heart pounding. He needed to find a way through. He could still hear her screams, desperate and full of terror. His breath quickened.
The sirens outside wailed, growing louder. The building was going to come down.
Suddenly, the screams stopped.
Only the roar of the fire remained.
A chill ran down Cole’s spine. He turned, panic setting in, and ran toward the stairs. The floor creaked beneath him, groaning in protest. The structure was giving way. The sirens screamed again, calling all firefighters out. They were too late.
A deafening crack rang out, and the floor beneath him disappeared. He fell—falling, falling—into the flames below.
The shrill blare of the alarm cut through the nightmare, yanking Cole from the depths of his dream. Cole shot up, his heart racing. He looked around the room, disoriented, trying to gather his bearings. His hand instinctively reached up to rub his eyes, but his fingers trembled as they touched his forehead. It was just a dream—just a nightmare—but it felt so real.
After a few deep breaths, he calmed himself down, pushed the nightmare back into the recesses of his mind, and got dressed. He moved mechanically, like he had countless times before. In the kitchen, he poured a bowl of cereal, but it wasn’t the food he needed—it was the silence.
His house was still, empty. No pets, no children, no wife—just the quiet, cold walls that had come to feel more like a prison than a home. But these days, the emptiness didn’t bother him as much. He’d grown used to it.
He finished his cereal, grabbed his keys, and left. The drive to the station felt like every other morning, but as he passed the old chemical factory, something caught his eye—a car swerved across the lane, cutting him off. The driver slammed into the parking lot recklessly and fast. Without thinking, Cole slammed on the horn and rolled down his window.
"Learn how to drive!" he shouted, his voice thick with irritation, though he didn’t care if they heard. He rolled the window back up, shaking his head, and continued to the station, unaware that the person who had cut him off was the one he was chasing.