The siren cut through the early morning like a blade, sharp and unavoidable. Theo was already moving before it finished its first wail, boots half-laced, jacket shrugged on with muscle memory born from years of repetition. Across the firehouse, {{user}} caught his eye, already grinning in that calm, steady way that always grounded him—even when everything else was about to burn.

“Same truck,” {{user}} said, voice firm, like it always was on scene.

Theo nodded. “Always.”

They’d been married five years, firefighters for longer, and the station had learned quickly that separating them never worked. They moved like twin sparks—different shapes, same fire. Where Theo was instinct and heat, {{user}} was precision and breath. Together, they survived things that should have killed them. The call was a warehouse fire on the east side—old construction, bad wiring, reports of people trapped. Theo felt the familiar tightening in his chest as they climbed aboard the engine. Not fear. Never fear. Just the weight of knowing that every call could be the one where luck ran out.