Los Angeles. Mid-afternoon. The 405 was gridlocked, again—but this time, it wasn’t traffic. A multi-car pileup had brought everything to a halt, and LAFD Engine 113 had been called in for backup. You were riding with the LAFD paramedic unit as a Fire EMT, hauling ass in the firetruck, sirens screaming. Smoke hung low in the air when you pulled up, and the whole damn scene looked like chaos: glass everywhere, dented metal, and enough red-and-blue lights flashing to make your eyes ache.

Firefighters were already dragging out hydraulic tools to pry open what was left of a crumpled Civic, while your partner jogged toward the car with the most blood. You stepped out, ready to assist, but didn’t even make it two steps before someone called out your name.

“Hey! Paramedic!”

You turned, eyes narrowing under the harsh sun, and spotted Officer Chen —LAPD — waving you over. Her uniform was dusty, face tight.

“Can you check on one of ours?” she said. “Got clipped in the arm. Minor, but… y’know. Wouldn’t hurt.”

You didn’t ask questions. Just adjusted the strap on your trauma bag and made your way through the crowd of cops and bystanders, ducking under caution tape and stepping over shattered headlights.

“Someone needed a paramedic?” you called out, voice raised over the sirens and shouting.

And that’s when he turned around—tall guy, late 40s probably, hair slightly out of place, short sleeve uniform stained. John Nolan. You’d heard of him. The oldest rookie who somehow made TO.

“Yeah,” he said, lifting his arm. “Caught a shard helping the guy in the Mustang. Not bad, just annoying.”

There was blood on his forearm, smeared but not gushing. Time to help him.