Page 38 of Knotting the Firefighters
I stop walking.
Just stop, right there at the elevator threshold, Bear at my side, both of us frozen by the sheer magnitude of disorganization unfolding before us.
This is a fire station.
An operational fire station.
With an active alarm.
And nobody is ready to respond.
My eye twitches—actual involuntary muscle spasm triggered by professional horror at what I'm witnessing.
Bear sighs beside me, the sound carrying resignation and embarrassment in equal measure. He pinches the bridge of his nose, looking like a man contemplating life choices that led him to this exact moment.
"The whole station thing," he admits quietly, voice pitched for my ears only, "is a bit chaotic right now."
I turn my head slowly, deliberately, fixing him with the kind of stare that made rookie firefighters in LA contemplate career changes.
"Abitchaotic?" The words emerge flat, stripped of inflection by disbelief. "Bear, I could organize a better emergency response with untrained civilians and a garden hose."
"You're not wrong," he concedes, having the decency to look sheepish.
"You said Aidric was the chief captain." My voice remains dangerously calm, the kind of quiet that precedes volcanic eruptions.
"Yes," Bear confirms, then winces. "Of our pack. But for the fire department? Not yet. He's in line for the position, Rodriguez has been pushing for it, but right now they don't actually have a chief when Tom isn't around."
"And Tom Rodriguez is...?"
"Having up and down health issues," Bear finishes, gesturing vaguely at the chaos. "Can't be here for emergencies like this. Which leaves us with twelve Alphas who've been operating without consistent leadership, no unified protocols, and apparently zero ability to dress themselves under pressure."
My eye twitches again.
Harder this time.
The professional part of my brain—the part that spent over a decade building efficient crews, implementing safety protocols, reducing response times through rigorous training—is currently screaming at volumes that could shatter glass.
Bear must read something in my expression because his sheepish look transforms into something sly, almost hopeful.
He gestures toward the pandemonium with theatrical flourish.
"Be my guest, Chief." The title carries challenge, invitation, permission all wrapped together. "Whip them into shape."
The words settle over me like a familiar coat—comfortable, well-worn, perfectly fitted despite years spent hanging unused in a metaphorical closet.
Chief Murphy.
Not victim, not baker, not Omega trying to disappear into small-town anonymity.
Chief Murphy, who built one of the most efficient fire crews on the West Coast.
Chief Murphy, who reduced response times by forty percent through tactical reorganization.
Chief Murphy, who commanded respect through competence rather than designation.
A smirk tugs at my lips—slow, deliberate, absolutely feral in its anticipation.
I turn back toward the chaos, rolling my shoulders like a prizefighter preparing to enter the ring. My hand dips into my pocket, fingers closing around the small object that lives there constantly, that travels with me everywhere despite its impracticality.
