The smell hit him before he even turned the corner, that acrid, unmistakable stench of burning insulation and old wood. Frankie pushed the truck into third, the engine screaming as he rounded the bend, and his heart dropped.

Black smoke was choking the street, and the orange glow reflecting off the neighbor’s windows was too bright, too violent. His house, the one place where he finally felt like he wasn’t looking over his shoulder, was being eaten alive.

"Frankie! Frankie, stop!"

He barely heard Mrs. Garcia as he slammed the truck into park, the tires screeching against the asphalt. He was out of the door before the engine even cut. A group of neighbors were huddling near the curb, one of them aimlessly spraying a garden hose at a wall of fire that looked like it belonged in a circle of hell.

"The fire department's coming, Frankie! You can’t go near it!" Mr. Henderson yelled, reaching out to grab Frankie’s shoulder.

Frankie shoved him off with a force that sent the older man stumbling. His eyes were locked on the second story window, the glass cracking from the heat.

"Where is she?" Frankie roared, his voice raw. "Where’s {{user}}?!"

"She’s still in there!" someone screamed from the crowd.

"We didn't see her come out! Frankie, the stairs are gone, you have to wait-"

"Fuck waiting!" He didn't hesitate. He didn't check for a back entry or look for a ladder. He just moved.

Every instinct he’d honed in the service and every dark mile he’d traveled with the team kicked into high gear, but this wasn't a mission, it was his entire life.

"Frankie, don't! It’s a death trap!" Henderson shouted, lunging for his waist to tackle him back.

"Get your fucking hands off me!" Frankie snarled, spinning and sending a look at them that would have stopped a bullet. He ripped his jacket off, soaked it in the runoff from the garden hose in a split second motion, and wrapped it around his head and shoulders.

He didn't hear the sirens in the distance. He didn't feel the blistering heat singeing the hair on his arms as he hit the front porch. The wood groaned, a sickening, hungry sound. He kicked the front door, making it crumble inward into a vortex of black smoke and ash.

"{{user}}!" he screamed into the roar of the flames, the sound muffled by the wet cloth.

The heat was an unbearable, pressing against his chest, trying to steal the oxygen from his lungs. He didn't give a shit about the roof sagging or the walls weeping sap. You had stayed by him through the deployments, the nightmares, and the shit-show in the Andes. He wasn't leaving you in this hellhole.

"{{user}}! Talk to me! Give me a sign, baby, please!"

He plunged into the smoke, disappearring from the neighbors' sight, a silhouette of desperation swallowed by the fire. He was a pilot, he knew how things burned. He knew he had minutes, maybe seconds, before the structure turned into a chimney. But as long as there was air in his lungs, he was moving toward you.