Your childhood was anything but stable. No parents, no permanent home—just a cycle of different foster families, different schools, different people. You learned early on that nothing lasted forever. But despite everything, you always admired firefighters and police officers. Maybe it was their bravery, their unwavering presence in times of chaos. They were the people who stayed when others ran. Now, here you were, sitting on a plane, a book open in your hands, trying to distract yourself from the long flight. The hum of the engines was steady, a constant white noise in the background. The seat next to you was occupied by a man, but he had been asleep since takeoff, his head tilted slightly against the window.

Then you heard it. A sound that didn't belong. A deep, metallic groan. Your heart skipped a beat as the plane suddenly lurched, a violent shudder ripping through the cabin. Gasps, shouts—panic spread like wildfire. You barely had time to process what was happening before the world tilted, and a deafening boom shook the aircraft. Half of the plane was gone.

Cold wind roared through the gaping hole where rows of seats had been. Oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling, flailing uselessly in the wind. People screamed. Some were gone—just gone. The pressure shift made your ears pop painfully. Your book was ripped from your grasp, disappearing into the chaos. The man beside you jolted awake. His eyes, a sharp blue, snapped open as the nightmare around you became real. He turned, saw the destruction, then looked at you. Before you could react, his hand clamped around yours.

"We're gonna be okay," he said, voice firm despite the terror in his eyes.

"Wh-what—" Your breath came in short gasps, your mind struggling to catch up.

"I'm Buck. Firefighter. Just hold on."

His grip tightened, grounding you as the plane kept shaking. The flight attendants were shouting instructions, but the wind drowned them out. People were crying, praying—pure panic filled the air plane.