Page 3 of Hunter

We roll heavy. Sirens screaming. Radio chatter thick. It’s what I lived for, once upon a time.

On scene it’s chaos—black smoke pouring out like the devil’s own breath, flames licking three stories high, collapse potential everywhere. Cap’s barking orders: “Hunter, Mike—interior attack on the east side with Diaz. Stay on the line, do not push past the collapse zone. I mean it.”

I nod. “Copy.”

Inside, the heat is a living thing. Gear feels as if it’s melting again. Smoke so thick it feels as though it has permeated my lungs and taken up residency. I know that’s not possible with my mask, but it still feels that way.

We push in, knocking down fire, searching for victims. Pulling a couple out. But the building’s groaning and angry. A beam shifts overhead, but I ignore it.

Cap’s voice crackles over the radio: “All units, back it down! Evacuate east side…structural compromise!”

The words sink into me, but something inside me snaps. I was too slow last time; not this time, not again.

I ignore the order. Pushing deeper into the area. “There’s movement—a civilian is sighted.”

Mike yells behind me. “Hunter, fall back! Cap said evac!”

I don’t listen. I charge the hallway as though it’s Robby on the other side of those flames. The floor buckles. Heat explodes. Something heavy slams into my helmet, my shoulder. It’s fresh agony on old scars.

Then nothing but roaring flame and the sick, familiar smell of burning meat.

Maybe this is finally it.

Chapter 2

Hunter

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The monitor drags me up from the black the same way it did the last time I was in this fucking place.

When I crack my eyes open, I’m met with white walls and sterile sheets instead of charred beams and flames.

But the smell—Jesus fuck—the smell of smoke is still thick in my nose, clinging to my hair, baked into my fucking pores, even though they’ve scrubbed me raw in some Brooklyn trauma bay. It’s not real. I know it’s not real. But even my lungs don’t believe it, every shallow breath tastes of melted plastic and burning flesh.

My shoulder is on fire again. Déjà vu so sharp it cuts. There’s a fresh bandage pulled too tight over the same ruined skin, and underneath it feels like there’s still a living flame chewing through me. It pulses hot and angry, a vicious little reminder that I’m still alive.

Unlike Robby.

I swallow his name before it can crawl out of my throat and make this real.

A nurse leans in, her voice soft and careful… a little tired, maybe. The kind of gentle tone you use on strays that might bite or cornered animals still screaming inside a fire. “Mr. Hale? You’re at Kings County Hospital. You’ve got second-degree burns on your shoulder and arm, smoke inhalation… but you’re safe now.”

I laugh once. It sounds like breaking glass and feels like being cut by it. “Safe. Yeah. That’s fucking rich.”

She straightens a little, a frown creasing between her eyes. “You’re on a temporary psychiatric hold for observation.”

I bolt upright. Pain lances through my shoulder like someone poured gasoline on the old burn and lit the match. “I’m the fuck what?”

That’s when I notice the restraints on my wrists—soft leather cuffs bolted to the bed rails. I yank hard. The whole bed jerks. Metal clangs against metal.

“Please calm down, Mr. Hale.”

“Calm down?” My voice cracks raw. “Who the fuck put me on a hold?”

She inhales slowly, like she’s bracing for my anger. “The Fire Department requested a seventy-two-hour minimum hold. You were very reckless on scene—refusing orders, pushing past the collapse zone. They believe you may be suffering from the trauma of losing your partner in a similar fire six months ago. This is for your own well-being.”

My own well-being.