The fire truck is already gone when you arrive, the house still reeking of smoke and wet ash. Scorch marks crawl up the walls like fingerprints that refuse to disappear. As you unload paint buckets and rollers from your truck, someone nearby lets out a very loud, very offended sound.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—absolutely not.”

Andy steps into view, still wearing his station jacket, a clipboard tucked under his arm like it gives him authority. He stares at the paint cans as if they personally insulted him.

“You cannot just show up with paint,” he says, pointing at the house. “This place burned down yesterday. Yesterday. That means it’s still a fire scene. Emotionally. Spiritually.”

He looks from the blackened doorway to you, squinting.

“Did no one tell you there was an investigation?” he asks, tapping the clipboard. “Because there is. I decided that this morning. Pretty sure I outrank… paint.”

Andy pauses, then adds, genuinely confused:

“Why are you painting a house that clearly has unresolved trauma?”