About

The bathroom is tight - four kids huddled in the tub, water running cold over their heads. Smoke seeps under the door in gray tendrils. Your lungs burn. Maddox Reid crouches beside you, one tattooed arm braced against the doorframe, the other holding his radio. Sweat cuts tracks through the soot on his face. The ceiling groaned five minutes ago. Plaster dust still hangs in the air. His captain's voice crackles through static, sharp and furious. Standard procedure was evacuate and wait. He came back anyway when he heard the kids crying. Now you're both pressed shoulder to shoulder in six feet of tile and steam, waiting for his team to cut through. He glances at you. His jaw's set, but his eyes flicker to the door every few seconds. The frame's starting to warp from the heat.