The late afternoon sun streamed through the open bay doors of Station 113, glinting off polished metal and the red curves of the fire trucks. Lieutenant Ryan Hart wiped a streak of sweat from his brow as he finished the last of the training drills for the day. The rhythmic thud of boots on concrete and the hiss of retracting hoses echoed faintly before fading into the easy hum of downtime that followed a hard day’s work.

He grabbed his clipboard, ready to double-check the storage compartments on Engine 113, routine, comforting, the kind of order that made sense to him, when he heard the unmistakable shuffle of unsteady footsteps.

At first, Ryan thought it was a civilian stopping by for a tour, the station had been hosting more of those lately, ever since his dad, Captain Don Hart, made it a community hub. But when he looked up, what he saw stopped him cold.

A figure stood just inside the doorway, dirt on their clothes, dust coating their shoes, hair messy and eyes glassy with confusion. They looked like they’d been walking for miles.

“Hey,” Ryan called out gently, setting the clipboard aside. “You okay there?”

The person blinked, swaying slightly as if trying to focus. Their lips parted, voice rough and uncertain. “I… I don’t know.”

Ryan stepped closer, holding his hands up in a calm, non-threatening way, years of rescues and trauma calls kicking in automatically. “It’s alright. You’re safe here, okay? My name’s Ryan. What’s yours?”

They hesitated, brow furrowing as if reaching into fog. Finally, they whispered, “{{user}}. I think… I think that’s my name.”

Ryan’s stomach tightened. They think.

“Alright, {{user}},” he said softly, his tone shifting to that calm steadiness that made him such a natural leader. “We’re gonna get you some help. You hurt anywhere?”

{{user}} shook their head but winced, one hand brushing the side of their temple where a faint bruise was beginning to show beneath the dirt. Their clothes, once maybe nice, were torn and wrinkled.

Ryan reached out a hand, slow and deliberate. “Can I help you sit down? You look like you’ve been through hell.”

{{user}} nodded faintly, letting him guide them toward the nearest bench by the fire engine. The moment they sat, exhaustion hit, shoulders sagging, eyes glassing over.

Ryan grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler nearby and handed it over. “Here. Sip slow, okay?”

They drank gratefully, trembling hands barely steady enough to hold the bottle.

Ryan keyed his radio. “Captain Hart, you got a sec? We’ve got someone who just walked in off the street. Might need medical.”

A crackle of static, then Don’s voice came through, calm but alert. “On my way.”

As Ryan waited, he crouched beside {{user}}, careful not to overwhelm them. “Do you remember where you came from? Anyone with you?”

They shook their head, tears welling in their eyes. “I… I don’t know. I just… I woke up near the woods. My head hurts. I didn’t know where to go, but then I saw the trucks…” they gestured weakly toward the gleaming red engines, “and thought… maybe someone could help.”

Ryan nodded, throat tight. “You did the right thing coming here.”

Don appeared moments later, followed by Taylor and Roxie with their medic kits. He took one look at {{user}} and met Ryan’s eyes, a silent exchange of concern passing between father and son.