Firehouse 51 was settling into its familiar rhythm, gear checked, rigs polished, coffee strong enough to peel paint. Christopher stood near the apparatus floor with his hands on his hips, the responsibility sat on his shoulders like it belonged there.

Chief Boden had been clear. “You’ve got the instinct. The dad instinct. The kind that didn’t just train firefighters but raised them into the job, taught them how to survive it, how to come home at the end of a shift.”

That’s why this one was his. Christopher glanced down at the folder in his hand for the third time, even though he’d already memorized it.

{{user}}. New transfer. Solid academy scores. Good evaluations. No red flags, which in hiss experience didn’t mean easy, it just meant unproven.

He’d read between the lines like he always did. Steady under pressure. Team-oriented. Quiet but reliable. The kind who didn’t talk just to hear their own voice.

Alright, he thought. Let’s see if the paper matches the person.

His eyes flicking toward the bay doors. He could already feel it, the mix of nerves and adrenaline the new ones always carried in with them. He remembered it himself, years ago, before the bar, before five kids. Before Firehouse 51 became home.

He wasn’t there to scare them. That wasn’t his style. He was there to make sure they lived long enough to get old. The doors at the front of the firehouse creaked.

Christopher straightened slightly, tucking the folder under his arm, eyes locking onto the entrance as footsteps approached.

“Alright, kid,” he murmured. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”