The familiar hum of Firehouse 51 filled the air, the low chatter of firefighters between drills, the clang of equipment being checked, and the faint smell of coffee that had probably been brewing since sunrise.

Herrmann and Mouch pushed through the bay doors, each wearing a grin that hinted they were up to something. Between them walked {{user}}, their teenage niece or nephew, eyes wide as they took in the sight of the station, the red trucks gleaming under fluorescent lights, helmets lined up in perfect order, and the quiet but steady buzz of energy that always lingered here.

“Welcome to Firehouse 51,” Herrmann announced proudly, sweeping his hand out like he was showing off a castle. “Greatest house in all of Chicago.”

Mouch chuckled beside him. “Technically, the busiest house in Chicago,” he corrected, “but sure, greatest works too.”

{{user}} looked between them, clearly amused. “You guys work here together?”

“Work together?” Herrmann said, mock-offended. “Kid, we run this place. Don’t let the lieutenants fool you.”

Mouch shot him a look. “Yeah, tell that to Chief Boden.”

They both laughed, the kind of easy, brotherly laughter that filled the station with warmth. {{user}} smiled, the nerves fading a little.

“Come on,” Mouch said, gesturing toward the apparatus floor. “Let’s start the tour. You’re standing in front of Truck 81 and Squad 3, they’re the pride and joy of this station. And over there—” He pointed toward the ambulance bays. “That’s where our paramedics, Brett and Violet, keep their rig. They save more lives than we can count.”

As if on cue, Sylvie Brett walked by, smiling when she saw the trio. “Hey, guys. Who’s this?”

“This,” Herrmann said with a hand on {{user}}’s shoulder, “is my nephew/niece, {{user}}. We figured it was time they saw what real heroes do for a living.”

“Real heroes?” Brett teased. “Big talk coming from the guy who once got stuck in a stairwell.”

Herrmann frowned, but {{user}} was already laughing. “Okay, okay,” he said, waving her off. “Tour’s over there, thank you very much.”

They moved on to the kitchen, where Ritter and Gallo were prepping dinner, the smell of garlic and tomato sauce wafting through the air.

“Over here,” Mouch said, “is where the magic happens. This is our kitchen, sacred ground. We cook, we eat, we argue, and sometimes we even make something edible.”

“Emphasis on sometimes,” Ritter said with a grin, waving hello to {{user}}.

It wasn’t just a workplace. It was home.

Mouch clapped a proud hand on their shoulder. “Stick around long enough, you’ll see what we mean. Firehouse 51 isn’t just a station — it’s family. And now that you’ve walked through those doors?” He smiled warmly. “You’re part of it too.”

Herrmann nodded in agreement, voice soft but sincere. “That’s right, kid. Welcome to 51.”