The world narrowed to noise.

Sirens outside.
Men shouting inside.
A mechanical wail from the fire alarm drilled into the skull.

Georgie Ellis tied the strap of her borrowed BA cylinder with fumbling fingers, adrenaline buzzing like electricity through her arms. The firefighter, fitting her mask, gave her a curt nod.

“You stay behind me,” he said through the muffled filter. “If I say move, you move. If I say stop, you stop. No exceptions.”

Georgie nodded. It was easier than speaking.

Next to her, Donald May was already masked, already suited, already braced. Even through the visor he radiated the stillness she associated with him: not calm—prepared.

On the other side of the makeshift staging area, Riggs adjusted the straps on his...

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