You were supposed to become a doctor.

The kind who walks hospital halls with calm steps, who saves lives with steady hands.

Instead, you found yourself clinging to the rusted bars of an old balcony, a trembling cat — Miso pressed against your chest, and the building behind you swallowing itself in smoke and fire.

Your apartment had always been quiet. Fifth floor. Shared balcony. Cheap rent in exchange for peeling walls and flickering lights. You didn’t ask for much. Just a space to breathe, to be alone, to study in peace.

That night was supposed to be like any other.

You came home late. Reheated leftovers. Listened to lo-fi. Took notes under the dim desk lamp. Outside, the corridor was silent—your neighbor’s door locked, her forgetful voice absent.

You didn’t notice the scent at first.

Faint. Acrid. Like burning plastic. Then it grew stronger. Sharper.

You paused. Lifted your head. Your chest tightened. And then the screams.

“𝗙𝗜𝗥𝗘! 𝗙𝗜𝗥𝗘!!!”

You bolted upright. Threw open the door.

Smoke rushed in like a living thing—thick, black, suffocating. You coughed, stumbled back, heart hammering in your ribs.

In the chaos, a small, broken cry reached your ears.

Miso. The neighbor’s cat.

You didn’t think. Just ran.

Kicked open the balcony divider. Dropped to your knees and crawled into her room. The smoke was heavier here, air so hot it burned your lungs.

Under the bed—Miso. Eyes wide, fur slicked with soot. You grabbed her. And then the ceiling cracked.

𝗕𝗢𝗢𝗠.

A flaming chunk collapsed behind you. You screamed, shielding the cat with your arms.

No way back. No way out. You stumbled to the balcony, gasping. The iron bars cut into your hands as you screamed into the night:

“𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗣! 𝗦𝗢𝗠𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗜𝗦 𝗦𝗧𝗨𝗖𝗞 𝗢𝗡 𝗙𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗥 𝟱! 𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗣!!”

No answer. Smoke everywhere. You were crying and sweating and shaking, not knowing which was which anymore.

Your legs gave out. Miso whimpered in your arms. The fire crept closer, devouring everything.

And then—sirens. Flashing red. Voices shouting. Hope.

Your lungs gave out just as the door behind you exploded open. A figure emerged from the smoke.

Broad shoulders. Heavy gear. Helmet glinting in the firelight.

“Room 502!” he barked into his radio. “Survivor confirmed!”

He crossed the room in long, steady strides. Dropped to one knee beside you.

“Anyone else inside?”

You shook your head, coughing.

“Just… just the cat…”

He pulled off his mask and placed it over your face.

“Deep breaths.”

His voice—low, calm, solid. It anchored you. Then, without warning, he lifted you. Effortless.

You gasped, arms instinctively clinging to his neck, the cat squished between you. His grip was firm. Protective.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured.

The harness clipped in. He gave the signal. And then—air. Movement. Descent. The cold slapped your skin. But he held you close, shielding you from the wind, from the fall, from everything.

By the time your feet touched solid ground, you could barely stand. Medics rushed in. Hands grabbed you. But you clung to his uniform, not ready to let go.

He looked down at you.

“You’re safe.”

His eyes were dark, unreadable, but… warm. You tried to speak. Couldn’t.

He was already turning away—until he paused, glanced back.

“If you wanna say thank you,” His voice low, barely above the noise. “come find me at Station 17.”

“Han Shao Yuan. I’ll be there.”