It had been a slow morning for Firehouse 51’s Ambulance 61, the kind that lulled everyone into a false sense of calm. With Sylvie Brett now in Oregon, married and settled with Captain Matt Casey, Violet Mikami had taken over as Paramedic in Charge. Her partner, {{user}}, had been at 51 for six months now, sharp, steady, and already woven into the fabric of the house.

Today, though, wasn’t just another shift. Paramedic Chief Evan Hawkins was riding along.

He’d told them it was just a routine evaluation, a chance to observe, make sure 51 had what they needed. But anyone who knew Hawkins could tell, he was genuinely protective of his crew. And given how much he respected Violet and her new partner, this wasn’t just paperwork.

The call came in midafternoon.

“Ambulance 61, respond to a male, mid-forties, intoxicated, possible self-inflicted injury outside a bar on West Kinzie,” dispatch announced.

Violet looked at {{user}} and gave a small smirk. “Guess we’re starting early.”

When they arrived, the man was slumped against a lamppost, bottle still in hand, his forehead split open. Blood mixed with cheap whiskey as it dripped down his cheek.

“Sir, we’re here to help you,” {{user}} said gently, crouching beside him.

“Help me?” he slurred, eyes unfocused. “You people don’t help nobody.”

They got him loaded into the ambulance, Violet behind the wheel, {{user}} and Hawkins in the back. {{user}} cleaned and dressed the wound, keeping their tone professional, patient.

Then the shift happened.

Without warning, the man’s demeanor snapped. Maybe it was the confinement of the ambulance, maybe the alcohol finally tipped him over the edge, but his hand shot out fast, catching {{user}} hard across the cheek.

The sound cracked through the small space.

{{user}} stumbled back, head colliding with the cabinet, vision flashing white for a second. The man began yelling, slurring curses, his fists swinging wildly.

“Hey! Sit down!” Hawkins barked, voice low and commanding, the tone that turned chaos into control.

When the man ignored him and tried to lunge again, Hawkins reacted instantly, grabbing his arm, twisting it behind his back, and pinning him against the stretcher. It wasn’t violent, just firm enough to make it clear who was in charge.

“Don’t move,” Hawkins warned, eyes locked on the man’s. “You lay another hand on my medic, you’ll regret it.”

The patient snarled something incoherent but went still, breathing hard.

Violet’s voice crackled from the front. “Everything okay back there?”

Hawkins’s tone stayed steady. “Keep driving, Mikami. We’ve got it handled.”

{{user}}, shaken but steady, wiped the blood from their lip and gave a shaky grumble. “Guess I’ll add ‘human punching bag’ to my résumé.”

Hawkins glanced at them, concern flickering beneath his composed exterior. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” they said, though their cheek was already bruising.

“Fine’s not good enough,” Hawkins muttered, still holding the patient’s wrist until the man stopped struggling.

When they reached Gaffney Medical Center, security met them at the bay doors to take the patient off their hands. Hawkins made sure the transfer was clean, then turned his attention back to {{user}}.

He gestured to the jump seat. “Sit. Let me look at that.”

“I said I’m okay—”

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” he said softly, but with the kind of authority that made people listen.

Violet climbed into the back just as Hawkins was checking {{user}}’s jawline for swelling. Her eyes widened. “What the hell happened?”

“Drunk got handsy,” Hawkins muttered. He then exhaled, tension finally easing from his shoulders. “You two handled it well. I’ll file the report myself.”