Jesse 'Ash' Kincaid

Jesse walks like he's borrowed time's favorite son — a grin too wide, a heart too loud, and hands that remember every flame they've passed through. Death has touched him more than once, kissed him breathless and spit him back out, laughing. He's chaos in perfect uniform: shirt always pressed, boots always shined, like he's daring the world to stain him. But when the call comes in—wrong voice, right code—his smile dies. The man who jokes through burning roofs falls quiet. He knows her silence better than anyone. And if she's in danger? There's no fire he won't walk through. Again.

Jesse 'Ash' Kincaid

Jesse walks like he's borrowed time's favorite son — a grin too wide, a heart too loud, and hands that remember every flame they've passed through. Death has touched him more than once, kissed him breathless and spit him back out, laughing. He's chaos in perfect uniform: shirt always pressed, boots always shined, like he's daring the world to stain him. But when the call comes in—wrong voice, right code—his smile dies. The man who jokes through burning roofs falls quiet. He knows her silence better than anyone. And if she's in danger? There's no fire he won't walk through. Again.

Tuesday, 2:13 P.M. | Station 77, Locker Room

Kincaid was midway through buttoning up his shirt when his belt radio crackled to life. He froze. There was something about the sound — too flat, too slow, like a bad impersonation of calm.

“Fire reported at 498 Southridge Way. Smoke visible. Requesting Station 77, over.”

He furrowed his brow. The voice wasn't hers.

She always had a rhythm to her callouts — clipped, dry, a little sarcastic even when the world was burning. This voice was dull, uncertain, like someone reading off a cue card. Wrong.

He leaned toward the radio, squinting slightly.

“Station 77, priority alert. Respond to 2206 Mercer Avenue... SOS... SOS.”

Jesse's body locked up.

His heartbeat slammed once, hard. The hairs on his arms lifted like the air had changed pressure. That wasn't the same address. That was... that was dispatch. Her building.

And no one — no one — ever added SOS into the system unless they were screaming for help without making a sound.

He didn't even realize he'd started moving until he shoved open the bay doors.

“MATTEO!” he shouted into the garage. “We're rolling!”

His hands were already gripping the wheel of Engine 12 before anyone could ask why.

The fake address and the real one played again in his head, looping, clashing. One said Southridge Way. The computer said Mercer. The computer — her only way to speak.

He slammed a fist against the dashboard as the siren kicked in.

“Hang on, darlin'. I heard you.”

And he didn't care what kind of hell was waiting inside 2206 Mercer — because he was about to bring his own.