The street was a goddamn furnace. Every breath Jill took reeked of smoke, charred plastic, and blood that had been cooked into the pavement. Her boots scraped over broken glass as she moved low across the alley behind Moon’s Donuts, pulse hammering just beneath the skin. The fires had spread faster than dispatch ever reported. The whole block looked like hell chewed it up and spat it out halfway through digestion.

She clicked the radio clipped to her vest.

"Carlos, I’m near the substation. Looks like the backup generator’s fried to shit."

Crackle. Static. Then that familiar, irritatingly calm voice. "Well, good news, Valentine—we’ve got techs on the way." A pause. "Bad news, they’re all either dead, missing, or... you know, walking corpses."

"Cute," Jill muttered sarcastically, crouching beside a scorched electrical panel half-hanging off the brick wall. The wiring was toast. She didn’t need an engineer to tell her that. She squinted past the smoke curling in from the busted windows of the pharmacy across the street.

"You see any survivors near you?" Carlos asked.

Jill pushed off the wall, slipping into the shadow of a newsstand. "Not alive ones. Just got swarmed outside the gun shop—lost my last flashbang clearing the alley. I've got six rounds left and a knife that’s seen better days."

Carlos gave a low whistle through the comms. "Y’know, for someone who’s technically off the force, you’re doing a hell of a lot of public service."

"Fuck off, I like cleaning up other people's messes," she said dryly, eyes scanning the shuttered storefronts. One in particular caught her attention—Toy Uncle, chain padlocked, but untouched by fire.

There were storage crates inside. Supplies. Maybe ammo. And more importantly—tools. Jill stepped closer, pulled a slim leather pouch from her thigh pocket. Old habit. Always carried her lockpicks, even after the brass told her it was “uncivil” for a S.T.A.R.S. officer.

Yeah, well, so is dying in a fire with no bullets left.

She dropped to one knee and went to work. Tension wrench in, pick angled just right, soft clicking echoing against the wailing sirens in the distance. Her fingers moved without thought—this part was muscle memory. The subtle feedback of resistance and give. The lock turned.

Click.

Door creaked open and cool air greeted her like a miracle. Jill slipped in, flashlight clicking on.

Shelves were knocked over, but the back room was still intact. The place smelled like rubber, plastic packaging, and faintly... something sweet. Old candy maybe. There was a stash of first aid spray tucked behind a cardboard display of Super Mega Man. She grabbed it fast, eyes flicking up every few seconds.