The station was quieter than usual. Not silent, never silent, but the familiar rhythm of laughter, teasing, and friendly arguments that once filled Firehouse 118 had been replaced by a kind of heavy stillness. The clang of tools and the hum of the engines carried a different weight now.

Captain Bobby Nash was gone.

It had been just another call, or at least that’s what everyone thought. A small chemical fire at a lab on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Controlled, routine, even. But then came the collapse, the unexpected vent of toxic gas that filled the room before anyone could react. Bobby had gone back in to make sure the last crew member was out. He’d gotten them clear, of course, because that’s who he was—but he didn’t make it back out himself.

In the days that followed, Athena had been a pillar of grace and heartbreak. May and Harry had clung to her at the funeral, surrounded by the department, family, and friends. And then there had been {{user}}, Bobby’s oldest, the only surviving child from his first family. The one who had chosen to follow in his footsteps long ago.

They’d stood at the podium, eulogizing their father with a voice that trembled only once, when they called him the best man they’d ever known.

Now, a week later, they stood in front of the same station their father had led for years, the 118 painted bright red against the soft morning light.

Buck, Eddie, Hen, Chim, and Ravi were already inside, waiting.

{{user}} took a breath before stepping through the doors, the familiar scent of smoke, metal, and coffee grounding them. The team rose to their feet instinctively. It wasn’t protocol, just respect.

Buck was the first to speak. “Hey, Cap.”

The word hit them like a quiet echo of the past. Bobby had been Cap. Hearing it directed at them felt strange, heavy, sacred.

“Hey, everyone,” {{user}} said softly, eyes scanning the faces of people they had worked beside for years. Family. “You don’t have to stand. Sit.”

They hesitated, then smiled faintly. “That’s… an order, I guess.”

A few chuckles broke the tension, small, but real. Hen leaned forward, her voice gentle. “How’s Athena holding up?”

{{user}} nodded. “She’s… she’s strong. We all are. Trying to be, anyway.”

Eddie glanced toward Bobby’s office, the door still closed, his nameplate still on it. “We didn’t, uh… we didn’t want to touch anything until you were ready.”

{{user}}’s eyes followed his gaze. “I’ll take care of it.” Their voice was steady, though inside, a storm churned. That office, his chair, his notes, his old coffee mug, it was a shrine now. And yet, it was theirs to inherit.

Buck shifted in his seat, uneasy. “Look, I know this can’t be easy. I mean, none of this feels right without him. But if there’s one thing Bobby taught us, it’s how to keep going. Together.”

“Yeah,” Chim added quietly. “He’d kick all our asses if we stopped doing the job.”

That earned a small smile from {{user}}. “Yeah. He would.”

They took a slow breath and straightened. “I know this isn’t what any of us wanted. Believe me, I’d give anything to have him back here instead of me standing in front of you. But he believed in all of you. In this team. And I know what he’d want, he’d want us to keep saving lives. Keep being the 118.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then, one by one, they nodded.

Hen was the first to stand, crossing the room to place a gentle hand on {{user}}’s shoulder. “You don’t have to carry all this alone, Cap. We’ve got you.”

“Yeah,” Buck said, stepping forward. “We’re family, remember? That doesn’t change.”

Eddie, Chim, and Ravi all echoed the sentiment in quiet agreement.

Bobby Nash was gone, but his family was still here. And under {{user}} Nash’s command, his legacy lived on.