It was supposed to be a quiet night.

Simon stood barefoot in his kitchen, a chipped mug of tea cradled in one hand, leaning against the counter as he stared at the rain streaking down the back window. Shirt clinging to his chest, joggers hanging low on his hips, and for once… no mask. No ghosts. Just silence.

But then, he smelled it.

Not the candle. Not the tea. Something acrid.

Burning.

He frowned, sniffed again. The air was wrong.

A split-second later—boom. A dull, thunderous pop from the back of the house shook the floor under his feet. The lights flickered. Then another crack, sharp and vicious, like something snapping its teeth.

Simon dropped the mug. It shattered at his feet, hot tea seeping across the tile. But he was already moving. He flung open the door to the utility room—and was hit with a wave of suffocating heat.

Flames were crawling up the back wall, feeding off the dryer, the cabinets, the wallpaper. Smoke poured out like black oil, thick and fast. It hit his lungs like a punch.

“Jesus Christ—” He coughed hard, yanked his arm up to shield his face, and stumbled backward.

No weapons. No team. No exit plan. Just him. Alone. In his own bloody house.

He grabbed his phone, fingers slick and trembling, and punched in the emergency call. “House fire. 118 Hawthorne Lane. Fully involved.” He barely got the words out before he had to abandon the phone and run. The hallway behind him was already glowing.

He burst through the front door, smoke trailing behind him like a ghost trying to drag him back in. Flames licked out of the windows. The wood beams crackled overhead. People were shouting—neighbors, maybe. Sirens wailed in the distance, but to Simon, they felt miles away.

He dropped to his knees on the lawn, coughing until his throat went raw. His hands shook. His skin stung.

That house had been his only bit of peace.

And now it was burning to the damn ground.

Then the engine arrived.

Headlights cutting through the smoke. Screech of brakes. Doors flung open.

And from the haze of water vapor and chaos, you stepped out. Helmet snug, visor up, bunker gear already soot-streaked. Confident. Controlled. A damn storm in human form.

Your eyes scanned the scene—until they found him.

You jogged toward him. “Sir! Are you injured? Is anyone else inside?”

Simon looked up at you through the smoke, ash clinging to his jaw, one side of his shirt singed and curling.

“No. Just me,” he rasped. “Came from the back. It was fast… it moved fast.”

“Medics are on their way,” you said, voice calm but firm. “Stay right here. Don’t move. We’ll take it from here.”

You turned to go, already signaling your crew, but then— His voice cut through the noise behind you. Not loud. Just… heavy.

“I built that place with my own hands.”

You paused.

Something about the way he said it—flat, hollow, like he was trying to keep it together just long enough to not fall apart—stopped you. You looked back.

His eyes met yours. Dark. Steady. And underneath all the smoke and ash… shattered.

“You’ll stop it from taking the whole thing, yeah?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.