Page 187 of Controlled Burn
The city admin building smelled like dust, stale coffee, and bureaucracy. Nothing like smoke. Nothing like home.
Talia still carried last night in her hair—ash, sweat, hospital antiseptic. It clung no matter how hard she scrubbed. She walked through sterile hallways with the faint echo of sirens in her ears, the phantom weight of her helmet on her skull.
She sat in a hard plastic chair outside the chief’s office, palms flat on her thighs. Her new uniform itched at the collar—stiff and unfamiliar. It still felt like someone else’s promotion.
A secretary called her name. She stood.
The meeting was short. The battalion chief didn’t sugarcoat it.
“You stepped up. Pulled a decorated captain out of a structure collapse. Brought a kid out alive. Took command without blinking.” He paused. “You earned this.”
He handed her a promotion memo—full lieutenant, effective immediately.
No ceremony. No applause. Just a signature and a handshake.
“And for what it’s worth, we received final guidance from HR. The complaint filed against Captain Maddox is officially closed.”
Talia raised an eyebrow.
“Not sustained,” he clarified. “Based on corroborating witness statements, conflicting testimonies, and... well, the recent arrest of Master Firefighter Brooks for falsifying records and misconduct.”
He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’ve been on every local channel for a week straight. Footage. Photos. Allegations. You name it. Hell, there was even a podcast episode about the ‘dark underbelly of hero culture.’”
He sighed. “City Council wants a clean sweep. HR’s in overhaul. And half the public thinks we’re all complicit.”
Talia didn’t flinch. She knew what the public saw. And what they didn’t.
Her lungs finally unclenched.
“He won’t be coming back,” the chief added. “As for Captain Maddox… he’s still in the hospital. No formal resignation, but we’re not expecting him to return.”
She nodded. It still didn’t feel real.
Back at Station 12, everything looked the same. Same stained couch. Same dull hum of the vending machine. Same uneven rhythm of boots on tile.
But something was different.
Her.
The crew gave her a long look when she walked in wearing new brass. Brent offered a nod. Reyes showed a quiet, “Congrats, Lou.” Even Watts didn’t say anything, just shifted awkwardly and ducked her head. Kennedy hovered in the doorway, watching with something like guilt—and pride.
Talia didn’t gloat. Didn’t flex. She just walked past them, grabbed a black coffee from the pot, and headed for the captain’s office.
The door was cracked open. She didn’t go inside. Dean’s name was still on the placard. She didn’t need the title to know she’d earned it.
She ended up in the locker room after her shift, unbuttoning her uniform shirt with slow fingers. The collar pin clinked against the bench. She picked it up, tracing the cool brass with her thumb.
The mirror across the room showed everything she used to hide. She got her sharp jawline from her father. The floral ink wrapping her arm—dahlias, always dahlias. The shadow under her eyes. And the quiet, steady fire behind them.
She remembered her first day. Shoulders too square. Smile too tight. Practically daring someone to call her weak.
They had. They all had.
And she was still here.
She rebuttoned the shirt like armor. Smoothed her hair. Stared herself down.
She’d seen her own face on a news chyron—blurred behind smoke, body bent over a child she’d carried from the fire. Headlines didn’t care who you were. Only what sold.
