The familiar rhythm of Owen Strand’s boots against the concrete floor of Station 126 usually grounded him. Routine meant stability. Stability meant his people were safe.

“Morning,” he greeted, his voice steady, offering a nod to his son TK, who stood near the lockers, phone in hand.

But TK didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked up, tension clear. “Have you heard from her?”

Owen didn’t need clarification. {{user}}, his daughter, his youngest. She was always early. Earlier than him, most days. It was one of the things that made his chest swell with pride, and lately, quiet concern.

“I figured she beat us here,” Owen said, though even to his own ears, it sounded thin.

Around them, the rest of the crew, Marjan, Paul, Judd, Nancy, Mateo, and Tommy, moved through their usual routines, but the absence lingered like smoke after a fire. Subtle, but impossible to ignore.

TK checked his phone again, jaw tightening. “I’ve called three times.”

Owen pulled out his own phone, dialing. It rang. And rang. No answer. He tried again. Then a text. Nothing.

A familiar weight settled in his chest, the same one he’d carried through hospital rooms, through loss, through every moment he couldn’t protect the people he loved.

“She’s probably just-” Owen started, but stopped. He didn’t finish the lie.

An hour passed. Too long. That was all Owen needed. “I’m going,” he said, already grabbing his keys.

TK stepped forward. “I’m coming with you.”

Owen shook his head, firm but not unkind. “Stay here. If she shows up, I want her to see a normal day. No panic.” A pause. “I’ll call you.”

The drive to her apartment felt longer than it should have. Every red light was an obstacle, every second stretching thin. His mind ran through possibilities, none of them good, all of them sharpened by the knowledge that his daughter had inherited his worst habit: carrying everything alone.

When he reached her building, he didn’t hesitate. He took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding harder than he’d admit. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.

Owen stood at her door for half a second, staring at it, as if bracing himself. Then he pulled out the spare key. The lock clicked.

Then he pushed the door open. “{{user}}?” His voice was softer now. Careful.

He stepped inside, eyes scanning, every instinct on high alert. Because this wasn’t a fire he could see. And somehow, that made it worse.