The microphone gave a faint squeal as Azrael Callum lifted it off the stand, the last chords of the acoustic set still humming in the bar's rafters. Applause scattered through the smoky room, tired hands, warm smiles. It was nearly midnight, the hour when neon light looked softer through drizzle, and he could already feel the quiet calling of home.
"Thank you, folks," he said, voice half hoarse from the night's songs but bright with that natural warmth that always pulled people in. "Tip your bartenders, and uh, don't play with fire, yeah? Leave that to me."
Laughter rippled. A few people in the front row called his name "Az!" "Encore!" but he waved them off with a grin. "Next week, promise."
He packed fast, sliding the guitar into its weathered case. The faint smell of pine oil and old coffee filled the emptying bar. Outside, the city breathed rain. He tugged his jacket tight, stepping under the awning and exhaling steam into the cold. A flick of his wrist sent his car keys spinning once before he caught them habitual, practiced, like everything else about him.
The drive home was quiet. A low-fi station murmured through the radio, soft percussion tapping against the hum of the engine. He liked this hour: the world between worlds, when streets were empty and everything felt on pause.
His phone buzzed once on the seat group chat from the station. Shift cleared, stay safe out there, Callum. He smiled faintly. He wasn't even on duty tonight.
Then he saw it.
A reflection in the windshield a pulse of orange against the skyline.
Azrael's brow furrowed. He slowed at the intersection, leaning forward. The glow was wrong for streetlights, too erratic, too alive. Then the first siren rose in the distance, long and mournful.
"No way," he muttered. The next moment, he was already turning the wheel, radio cutting off mid-song as his tires splashed through a puddle.
The fire was visible five blocks away orange and black swallowing the night sky. The smell hit first: burning rubber, wood, and something chemical. He parked crooked at the curb, half on the sidewalk, leapt out, and ran toward the cordon tape still being strung by early responders.
A captain in full gear caught sight of him. "Callum? You're off duty."
Azrael was already pulling his own turnout coat from the back seat, sliding into it mid-sprint. "Yeah, well, fire didn't get the memo."
"You're insane, you know that?"
He flashed a grin through the smoke. "That's what makes me useful."
The heat rolled out from the building in waves. Apartment complex, old construction, four stories, flames chewing through the top two. The sound of shattering glass punctuated the crackle. Shouts. Someone crying for help from a balcony.
"Engine Three's inside, we've got people trapped on the third!" the captain barked into his radio.
Azrael's heartbeat steadied. The chaotic rhythm of the scene always settled him. There was no thinking here, only doing. He yanked his helmet strap tight, mask secure, oxygen flow good.
He looked up third floor, second window from the right. Movement inside. A woman, coughing, clutching a small shape.
"Got eyes on a civilian!" he shouted.
"Callum, wait for backup!"
But he was already moving. Into the building, through the broken entry doors, into the heat.
The smoke met him like a living thing, pressing into his mask, whispering static in his ears. The temperature rose with every step. He swept left hand against the wall, right hand gripping the hall hook. The flashlight beam cut narrow tunnels through the darkness.
"Fire Department!" he called. "Call out if you can hear me!"
Somewhere above, a beam groaned. He heard the pop of floorboards giving way. Then a faint, high sound, crying. A child.
He turned toward it.
Up the stairwell, visibility dropping. His gloved fingers brushed hot railing. The heat was fierce enough that even through protective layers he could feel it bite. He ignored the sweat trickling down his back. His breath came rhythmic, shallow, controlled one of the many habits that made him good at this.
He reached the third floor landing. Smoke thick enough to taste. "Hello?!" he called again. Nothing. Then two sharp coughs from the right-hand corridor.
He moved fast, low to the ground. The apartment door was half-melted, hinges hissing. He kicked it open.
Inside, fire danced along the ceiling like ribbons of orange glass. The mother stood by a crib, clutching a boy no older than six, both covered in soot. Her eyes went wide when she saw him a ghost in yellow gear emerging from the blaze.
"It's okay!" Azrael shouted over the roar. "I've got you! Come on, we have to move now!"
She hesitated, looking toward the door, terrified. The ceiling cracked.
Azrael crossed the distance in two strides, crouching. "Hey, little man," he said, forcing calm through the mask. "You like heroes?"
The boy blinked through tears. "Y-yeah…"
"Good. Let's play a game: we run through that hallway as fast as superheroes, okay? I'll go first."
He took the kid's hand, wrapped his other arm around the mother's shoulders. "Stay behind me, keep low!"
The moment they stepped into the corridor, the building screamed. Wood splintered. Flames reached sideways, feeding on oxygen from the burst window. The stairwell was ahead almost there.
Then the floor shook violently. Somewhere below, something massive collapsed.
Azrael turned, shoving them through the next doorway just before the ceiling came down behind them in a storm of sparks and burning plaster.
The new room was smaller, kitchen, maybe. Windows sealed, one half-broken. Fire spreading fast along the walls.
"Are you okay?!" he shouted.
The mother nodded, trembling, clutching the boy tight. "We, we can't get out! The stairs".
"I'll find a way." He moved to the window, slammed his shoulder into it. It cracked but didn't give, bars outside. Old design.
Azrael swore under his breath. "Come on, come on…"
Through the radio, distorted voices crackled: Third floor team report, Callum status?
He pressed the receiver. "Trapped third floor, east side! Two civilians! Need ladder or line now!"
Copy that , hang tight, we're…
Static drowned the rest. The ceiling popped again.
Azrael looked back at the child, wide blue eyes, trembling lips, and something in him steadied. "We're getting out. Promise."
He ripped a curtain down, dunked it in the puddle from a burst pipe, and threw it around the pair. "When I say run, we run. No looking back."
He could already hear the beam above groaning.