Chapter 4 Old Burns
The Warehouse Fire
The morning started like every other morning at the station.
Coffee moved from one hand to another, boots crossed the kitchen floor, and someone had the television on low enough that nobody was actually listening to it.
The crew talked about an upcoming inspection, the weather, and a call from the previous night that had turned out to be nothing more than a faulty smoke detector.
Gideon sat at the end of the table with his coffee and listened without contributing much.
He had become good at existing around people without becoming part of their conversations.
That was how he preferred it.
He had been at the new station long enough for everyone to recognize his habits. They knew he liked his equipment arranged in a particular order. They knew he preferred coffee with a little sugar. They knew he was usually the first person ready when a call came in.
They did not know what happened at the warehouse.
Gideon intended to keep it that way.
“You ever work industrial fires?”
The question came from one of the younger firefighters across the table.
Gideon’s hand stopped around his coffee cup.
“Yeah.”
The firefighter nodded toward the television, where a news report was showing footage of a warehouse fire in another part of the city.
“Looks nasty.”
Gideon glanced at the screen.
Smoke rolled across the roof of the building while firefighters worked along the street. The footage was distant, but the shape of the structure was enough.
Something tightened inside Gideon’s chest.
“Industrial fires are unpredictable,” he said.
The younger firefighter continued eating.
“Because of the chemicals?”
“Chemicals. Stored materials. Structural weaknesses. Poor ventilation. Depends on the building.”
“Must be hell inside.”
Gideon looked at the television again.
“Yes.”
The word came out quieter than he intended.
The firefighter didn’t notice.
Someone else changed the subject.
Gideon remained still.
The smell of coffee had disappeared.
In its place came smoke.
Not real smoke.
Memory.
His fingers tightened around the cup.
He could see the warehouse again.
Years had passed, but his mind had preserved every detail with cruel precision.
The building had been enormous, its steel frame stretching high above them. Smoke had already filled the upper levels when Gideon’s crew entered. The heat had been intense enough to push through his protective gear.
He remembered the sound of his breathing inside the mask.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
He remembered the radio chatter.
He remembered someone shouting from the other side of the structure.
He remembered the floor trembling beneath his boots.
Then came the alarm.
Evacuate.
The order had been clear.
Everyone out.
Gideon remembered turning toward the exit.
He remembered following the others.
Then he heard the voice.
“Help!”
One word.
One voice.
One decision.
He stopped.
The memory shifted.
Smoke.
Heat.
Metal screaming overhead.
Someone yelling at him to get out.
Gideon turning back.
He could still feel the weight of the decision in his chest.
He had gone back inside.
He had believed someone was trapped.
He had believed he could get him out.
He had believed he still had time.
The warehouse had taught him how quickly a building could become a grave.
A section of steel collapsed.
The sound had been enormous.
Gideon remembered being thrown sideways.
He remembered fire.
Then pain.
A terrible, blinding pain that seemed to consume everything at once.
He remembered trying to move.
He remembered calling for the other firefighter.
No answer.
He called again.
Nothing.
The radio crackled.
Someone shouted his name.
Then darkness.
Gideon blinked.
He was back at the station.
The television was still playing.
His coffee had gone cold.
“Cross?”
Gideon looked up.
Owen stood beside the table.
“You all right?”
“Fine.”
Owen studied him.
Gideon stood.
“I’ve got equipment to check.”
“You already checked it.”
“I’ll check it again.”
Owen didn’t stop him.
Gideon walked into the bay.
The engine sat exactly where it had been that morning.
Red paint.
Polished metal.
Hoses neatly secured.
Everything under control.
He placed both hands on the engine and breathed slowly.
The memory refused to disappear.
He closed his eyes.
The smell came back.
Burning insulation.
Hot metal.
Smoke.
The sound of the ceiling collapsing.
Then the voice.
Help.
Gideon opened his eyes.
He hated that word.
Not because it belonged to someone else.
Because he still heard it.
Every night.
Every time a building filled with smoke.
Every time an alarm sounded.
Every time he smelled something burning.
He had spent years trying to outrun one moment.
The transfer was supposed to help.
A new station.
A new district.
A different routine.
None of it mattered.
The fire was still inside him.
By the afternoon, Gideon had pushed the memories back far enough to function.
He worked through drills.
He responded to a medical call.
He checked equipment again.
He kept moving.
Movement helped.
If he stopped, his mind caught up.
Near the end of the shift, he found himself looking across the street.
Reyes Ink was open.
Nico stood near the front window, speaking with a client.
For several seconds, Gideon watched him.
Nico looked up.
Their eyes met.
He smiled.
Gideon looked away.
The reaction surprised him.
Usually, after a difficult memory, he wanted to be alone.
Today, he wanted to cross the street.
He wanted to hear Nico’s voice.
He wanted to sit somewhere that smelled like disinfectant and ink instead of smoke.
The realization unsettled him.
He remained inside the firehouse.
That night, Gideon went to bed exhausted.
He expected sleep to come quickly.
It didn’t.
He lay on his back in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
The station was quiet.
Somewhere downstairs, a refrigerator hummed.
A pipe clicked inside the wall.
Someone shifted in a bunk down the hall.
Gideon closed his eyes.
The warehouse returned.
He was inside again.
Smoke filled his mask.
His breathing became louder.
The radio crackled.
“Evacuate.”
Gideon turned.
Someone was behind him.
He heard the voice.
“Help!”
He ran toward it.
The floor shook.
Steel collapsed.
Fire exploded across the ceiling.
Gideon reached for the other firefighter.
His glove closed around empty air.
“Hold on!”
The voice disappeared.
Gideon tried again.
Nothing.
He turned toward the exit.
It was gone.
Fire surrounded him.
His mask filled with smoke.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t—
Gideon woke violently.
His body jerked upright.
He dragged in a breath and immediately began coughing.
The room was dark.
His chest hurt.
His hands shook.
For several seconds, he didn’t understand where he was.
Then the station came back.
The bunk.
The ceiling.
The quiet hallway outside.
Gideon pulled the blanket away and stood.
His lungs felt too tight.
He walked toward the window and forced it open.
Cold night air entered the room.
He leaned against the frame and breathed.
Slowly.
Again.
Again.
His heart refused to settle.
He pressed a hand against his chest.
He had experienced nightmares before.
Too many.
He knew how to wait them out.
Usually, he wanted nobody around afterward.
Tonight was different.
The first person who came to mind was Nico.
Gideon stared into the darkness.
He could picture him clearly.
The dark hair.
The tattooed arms.
The steady eyes.
The way he asked before touching him.
The way he stopped when Gideon tensed.
The way he never looked at the scars with pity.
Gideon reached for his phone.
He stared at the screen.
Nico’s number was there.
Gideon had saved it after their first consultation.
He had never called.
His thumb hovered over the name.
What would he say?
I had a nightmare.
I’m having trouble breathing.
I need someone.
The last thought made him pull his hand back.
He locked the phone.
He had survived worse than a nightmare.
He didn’t need anyone.
That was the lie he had been telling himself for years.
Gideon sat on the edge of the bed.
The phone remained in his hand.
He unlocked it again.
Nico’s name appeared on the screen.
For one moment, Gideon considered pressing the call button.
He imagined Nico answering.
He imagined hearing his voice in the darkness.
He imagined saying nothing at all.
That was what frightened him most.
Not that Nico would ask questions.
Not that he would pity him.
Gideon was beginning to believe Nico wouldn’t do either.
What frightened him was that Nico might simply stay.
Gideon turned the phone face down.
He forced himself to lie back down.
Sleep did not return immediately.
But his breathing eventually slowed.
And just before his eyes closed, Gideon realized something he wasn’t ready to admit.
For the first time since the warehouse fire, when the memories became unbearable, his mind had not searched for an empty room.
It had searched for Nico.
The Night He Lost Them
The next afternoon, Gideon crossed the street before he had time to change his mind.
He had spent most of the day telling himself that he didn’t need to see Nico. The nightmare had been nothing new. The tightness in his chest had passed. He had gone through his shift, responded to calls, checked equipment, and performed every task expected of him.
There was no reason to talk about it.
Yet when his shift gave him a quiet hour, his feet carried him toward Reyes Ink.
The small bell above the door sounded when he entered.
Nico looked up from his desk.
His expression changed immediately.
Not with surprise this time.
With recognition.
“Hey.”
Gideon nodded.
“Hey.”
Nico put his pen down.
“You all right?”
Gideon almost said yes.
The answer was ready.
It had been his answer for years.
Instead, he looked toward the consultation area.
“Can we talk?”
Nico studied him for a moment.
“Of course.”
Gideon sat down.
Nico took the chair across from him.
Neither man spoke for several seconds.
The studio was quiet except for the low music coming from the speakers. Afternoon sunlight crossed the floor, and the familiar smell of disinfectant and ink surrounded them.
Gideon looked at his hands.
“I had a nightmare.”
Nico didn’t react dramatically.
“About the fire?”