The night had started with a gut feeling and ended in chaos.

Eddie stuck close to {{user}} as they stepped out of the 118’s truck, Buck a few strides behind. The quiet residential street was washed in pale streetlight, too calm for the frantic call they’d just received. A few houses down, a patrol car from the 133 idled, lights rotating silently.

Charlie’s trembling voice over the phone still echoed in Eddie’s head. Something’s wrong. Please come.

Inside the house, they found Charlie pale and fevered, his mother Sheila pacing like a cornered animal. The 133 medics had already started an assessment, but Eddie could tell {{user}}’s instincts were locked on Sheila. They’d been right from the start, something about this illness didn’t add up.

Eddie positioned himself near the front door, scanning for threats while {{user}} spoke softly to Charlie, promising he’d be okay. Buck lingered by the window, radioing updates.

When the scene finally seemed under control, they stepped back onto the street. Rain from an earlier squall left the pavement slick and shining. Eddie was about to say they should grab coffee on the way back when the world cracked open.

The gunshot was so sharp it felt like the air itself snapped.

{{user}} jerked mid-step and crumpled, a dark bloom spreading across their turnout coat.

“Sniper!” Buck shouted, dragging them toward the nearest parked car as Eddie dove for cover, adrenaline slamming through his chest.

Bullets chipped asphalt, pinged off metal. The 133 crew ducked behind their rig. The Captain barked orders into the radio, calling for SWAT.

“Stay with me!” Eddie pressed both hands to the wound as Buck shielded them. Sirens in the distance. His gloves were already slick with blood. “You hear me? Stay awake!”

The next minutes blurred into flashing lights and shouted commands until the all-clear came. SWAT secured the area, but the sniper was gone.

Eddie rode in the ambulance, refusing to let go of {{user}}’s hand even as Hen worked over them. “Pulse weak but present,” Hen said. “We’ve got a shot.”

At the hospital, the trauma team swept {{user}} into surgery. Eddie paced the waiting room, soaked and silent, barely aware of Buck and Chimney nearby. Hours dragged. Finally, a surgeon emerged: “We’ve stabilized them. The bullet missed vital organs, but they’re in a medically induced coma to help them heal.”

Eddie exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the shot. He scrubbed a hand over his face and went straight to the ICU.

Machines beeped steadily around the bed where {{user}} lay, pale beneath the tangle of tubing and bandages. Eddie took the chair beside them and settled in, still in damp gear.

He wrapped his fingers around their hand, thumb brushing over bruised knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, voice low enough only they could hear. “Not until you wake up. I’ve got you.”

Outside, Los Angeles moved on, sirens, traffic, the usual night noise, but Eddie stayed anchored, eyes never leaving {{user}}, waiting for the smallest sign they’d come back.