2. Hunter
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.
I yank the restraints again, harder, until the leather bites into my skin and the pain in my shoulder flares white-hot. Good. Let it burn. Let it remind me exactly what I deserve.
The guys saw it. They finally fucking saw the crack in my fake mask.
And I probably almost got Mike and Diaz killed, because I couldn’t stop chasing Robby’s ghost. It feels like he’s still burning somewhere, and I’m still here, breathing.
I’ll be lucky if this doesn’t land me with a forced leave and court-ordered therapy.
They tried to get me to go after it happened, but I refused.
I bare my teeth at the nurse, voice low and ugly, as I snarl, “Take these fucking things off me.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just gives me that same tired, careful look. “Not until the doctor clears you. Try to rest, Mr. Hale. Someone will be in soon.”
She leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind her like a cell door.
The silence that follows is worse than the beeping. It presses in from all sides, thick and cold, broken only by the monitor still counting out the heartbeats I don’t deserve. My wrists ache where the leather dug in. Good. I hope they bruise. Let everything hurt the way it should.
I stare at the ceiling tiles until they start to blur, counting the holes in an attempt to ignore the voice of my dead boyfriend inside my head.
He honestly would hate this for me. I know he would.
I can imagine him telling me to forgive myself. Well, fuck him. He doesn’t get a say, because he fucking died.
The thought sinks deep, twisting something inside me.
Robby—bright and steady and always too good for this shit-hole world—would be sitting on the edge of this bed right now, voice low and calm, telling me I did everything I could.
That it wasn’t my fault the beam came down.
That I need to stop carrying his ashes around as if they belong in my lungs.
Fuck that.
I yank the restraints again, harder this time, until the leather bites deep enough to split skin and fresh blood trickles warm down my wrist. The pain flares bright and clean, cutting through the fog.
“You don’t get to be the hero now,” I whisper to the empty room. “You don’t get to tell me shit from six feet under. You left me here. While you took the easy way out.”
It’s a lie. He wouldn’t have left me if he had a choice.
I killed him.
The thought loops, vicious and endless, the same way it has since he died. Only now, I’m strapped to this bed like some rabid animal they’re afraid will bite the next person who gets too close.
The monitor keeps beeping; it mocks my every breath. I close my eyes and let the white walls press closer. The feeling of the smoke smell crawling down my throat until I’m choking on it, even though the air is clean.
Robby’s voice tries to push through again, soft and forgiving, the way it used to be when he’d pull me out of my own head after we had a bad shift.
I shove it down harder.
“Stay dead,” I mutter bitterly. “Just stay fucking dead, you asshole.”
The words are barely out of my mouth when the door swings open after a quick knock. A man in a white coat steps inside the room. He’s empty-handed, a stethoscope hanging around his neck, and a few pens in his lab coat pocket.
“Mr. Hale. It’s good to see you awake.”
“You can take these off now. I’d like to leave.”
He sighs, the sound tired and practiced, as though he’s had this conversation a hundred times with guys just like me. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. And even once they are off, you won’t be able to leave this floor until your hold is up.”
“Don’t I get a phone call or something?”
He smiles slightly, the kind of small, pitying smile that makes me want to rip his fucking throat out. “This isn’t jail.”
“No shit,” I snap, yanking on the restraints again. The leather bites deeper into the fresh cuts on my wrists, sending a hot spike of pain up my arms that almost feels good. Almost. “Then why the fuck am I chained to the bed like some psycho who might off himself any second?”
The doctor doesn’t flinch. He just pulls up the rolling stool and sits, folding his hands in his lap like we’re about to have a reasonable conversation.
“Because on scene you refused direct orders, pushed into a collapse zone, and had to be physically pulled out by your crew while screaming your dead partner’s name.
The department is concerned. We’re concerned.
This seventy-two-hour hold is to make sure you don’t hurt yourself—or anyone else—before we can get you the help you need. ”
Help. The word tastes like bile.
I laugh again, that same broken-glass sound that scrapes my throat raw.
“Help. Right. Because strapping me down and pumping me full of whatever you people pump into guys like me is gonna bring Robby back. Or make me stop seeing his face every time I close my eyes. Or fix the fact that I left him burning while I crawled out like a fucking coward. It should have been me that night.”
My shoulder flares white-hot with the words, the fresh burns screaming under the bandage as though they’re trying to split open and finish what the fire started six months ago. I welcome the pain. Because it’s been my constant companion.
The doctor watches me carefully, eyes steady. “Mr. Hale, the trauma from losing your partner is clearly still very raw. That’s normal after—”
“Normal?” I cut him off. “Normal is going home to the guy you loved and fucking the bad shift out of your system. Normal isn’t dragging what’s left of his body out of the rubble and then spending every night trying to drink the smell of him burning out of your nose. Don’t talk to me about normal.”
He doesn’t argue. Just nods once, like he’s heard it all before. “We’ll get those restraints off as soon as you’re stable. In the meantime, try to rest. The department will be sending someone by later today with paperwork. You’re not alone in this.”
Not alone. The lie sits heavy in the room long after he stands up and leaves, the door clicking shut again with that same final sound.
I’m alone as fuck.
Robby’s gone. The crew is probably already whispering about how Hunter finally cracked.
And I’m stuck here in this white box, wrists raw, shoulder on fire, with nothing but the beeping monitor and the ghost of the only man I ever loved telling me to forgive myself like he has any right to speak from the grave.