Page 2 of Hunter

Then nothing. Just silence and the smell of burning meat and melted plastic that still lives in my nose every single fucking night.

The memory spits me back out like expired meat left in a hot dumpster.

I’m on all fours on my shitty apartment floor, chest heaving, sweat pouring down my face and mixing with the tears I didn’t even notice falling. The carpet is rough under my palms. Real. No flames or collapsing beams. Just cheap, stained carpet that smells like old beer.

My stomach flips hard.

I barely have time to turn my head before it comes up—hot, sour tequila and whatever the hell I ate last; day old sitting out pizza, maybe. It splatters across the floor in thick ropes, burning my throat worse than the liquor ever did. Another heave, and more comes until nothing but bile comes out, strings of spit dangling from my lips.

The smell hits me—vomit, sweat, the ghost of smoke that never really leaves. I gag again even though there’s nothing left.

“Fuck… fuck you,” I rasp to no one. To him for leaving me in this shit hole. To myself for fucking up everything. My voice cracks the same way his did in the fire the last time I saw him.

My arms give out. I collapse sideways into the warm, chunky mess I just made, cheek pressing into the wet spot. The stench crawls up my nose and coats my throat. I don’t even care anymore. Let it soak into my shirt and ruin what’s left of me.

The old burn on my shoulder flares as if it’s happening all over again—hot, tight, angry scar tissue screaming where the gear failed and the fire won. It pulses in time with my heartbeat, a vicious reminder that I got to walk out and he didn’t.

I killed him.

The thought loops, vicious and endless. I killed him. I was too slow. Too weak. Too fucking stupid.

My eyelids flutter. The room tilts again, darker this time. The gun in the drawer feels a thousand miles away. Everything does.

Blackness creeps in at the edges, soft and heavy, promising nothing and everything at once.

I let it take me.

Let it drag me under into the only place where the pain finally stops.

I’m alive. My head throbbing in time to my heartbeat tells me that as I crack my eyes open.

I peel my face off the crusty carpet, vomit half dried and stiff in my hair, my cheek, my clothes. The stench is fucking biblical. My shoulder throbs with the old wound. And Robby’s name is still rattling around my skull. If I could just forget him, maybe it would make everything better.

I drag myself up, strip down, and stumble to the bathroom to stand under the coldest shower I can tolerate until the water runs clear.

By the time I pull into the station lot for my forty-eight, I’ve got my mask bolted on tight. Clean uniform. Fresh shave. Breath mints. The fake grin that says, I’m good, brother, how are you holding up?

“Morning, sunshine!” Cap calls from the bay as I walk in, clapping me on the good shoulder. “You look like shit warmed over. Late night?”

I laugh, the sound scraping my throat raw. “Nah, just still dreaming about your wife’s last visit, Cap. Tell her I said the lace was a nice touch.”

The guys roar. Mike slaps my back, Diaz whistles.

“Hunter’s back on his bullshit! Thank fuck, I was getting bored without your ugly mug the last few days,” Barry says.

Inside, it all feels like tuning into the wrong TV channel with only an antenna for a tuner. Static. They’re laughing at a dead man walking. If they knew it was my call that got Robby killed. If they knew I’m the reason he’s bones and teeth now…

I give as good as I get all morning. Through the truck checks, hose drills, the usual ball-busting over breakfast that turns my stomach. I pretend. It’s the only thing I’m good at now.

“Pass the syrup, asshole, or I’ll tell everyone about that Tinder disaster last shift.” Fake cheer drips off me, and they eat it up. Nobody looks too close. That’s the deal in the house: you joke, you rib, you don’t ask what’s really eating the guy next to you. Because we’ve all lost someone to the flames we fight.

By afternoon, the exhaustion is bone-deep, but I keep moving and smiling. Try to forget last night and the memories it made fresh.

Then the tones drop.

“Engine 33, Ladder 9, five-alarm structure fire, industrial warehouse in the East Village. Multiple entrapments reported. All units respond.”

Adrenaline slams through the hangover fog. Five alarms—full fucking rodeo. Every engine, ladder, and spare body they can scrape together. My pulse kicks hard, and for a second, it almost feels like something other than guilt.