The common room at Firehouse 51 was unusually light, laughter echoing between sips of bad coffee and the occasional thump of boots on the worn tile floor. The last call had been routine—just smoke, no flames—and it left enough breathing room for the crew to shake off the tension, if only for a while.

Sam Carver leaned back in one of the chairs, legs stretched out, trading jabs with Gallo and Ritter as the three of them dissected who’d slipped on the slick driveway last shift and pretended it hadn’t happened.

“Man, you hit the ground like it owed you money,” Gallo said through a grin.

Carver chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Better than that hydrant you almost headbutted last month.”

Ritter nearly spit out his drink, and for a second, the firehouse felt like home—easy, loud, familiar.

That was, until Violet Mikami stepped into the room, her face tight with something that didn’t match the mood.

“Carver,” she said quietly, not interrupting so much as slicing through the air. Her voice alone was enough to make him straighten in his chair.

He caught the look on her face—serious, almost hesitant—and that playful ease drained from his features.

“What’s up?”

Violet glanced over her shoulder, then back to him. “There’s someone outside. Near the rigs. Said they needed to talk to you.”

Carver frowned. “Who?” Violet hesitated. “{{user}},” she said. “They said they’re family.”

The word hit him like a subtle punch to the ribs. Family.

He stood slowly, pulse ticking up just enough for him to feel it in his jaw. “Did they say what it was about?”

Violet shook her head. “No. But… they didn’t look okay.”

Carver didn’t ask anything else.

He just stepped around the couch, past the flickering television, toward the apparatus bay where the sun poured in through the high windows. His footsteps echoed across the floor.

And there, near Engine 81, standing rigid in the shadow of steel and sirens—was {{user}}.

Waiting.