Chapter 2

The next day, the atmosphere in the firehouse was thick with a strange reverence for Sabrina. She wasn't a probie anymore; she was some kind of oracle. The crew hung on her every word.

I was in the kitchen, making coffee, when she walked in. The room went quiet. She walked straight up to me, her eyes filled with what looked like profound sorrow. She pointed a trembling finger at me.

"Molly," she said, her voice cracking. "Molly can't go into a burning building again."

A cold dread, different from any I'd ever felt on a call, washed over me.

"What are you talking about, Sabrina?" I asked, my voice steady.

"I see it," she whispered, and the entire crew leaned in to listen. "A terrible collapse... a line-of-duty death. It will bring a federal investigation down on the whole station, and people will lose their jobs. Captain, you'll lose everything."

Captain Duncan looked from her to me, his face pale. The crew murmured, their fear palpable.

Anthony rushed to my side, but not to defend me. He put his arm around my shoulders, his grip tight. "Molly, maybe you should take it easy for a while. For the good of the station. For us."

His words hit me harder than any fire. He was siding with her.

"You can't be serious," I said, looking at him, then at Duncan. "This is insane."

But the seed of fear had been planted. Duncan, pressured by the crew and by my own fiancé, made the call.

"Johns," he said, avoiding my eyes. "You're on house watch and equipment maintenance until further notice. It's for the best."

Benched. I was benched because of a rookie's voodoo prediction. The betrayal was a physical weight in my chest. I looked at Anthony, searching for support, but he just looked away, his face a mask of false concern.

A few days later, we got a call for a hazardous materials spill. A truck had overturned, leaking unidentified chemicals. The team went, and I stayed behind, listening to the radio chatter, my hands clenched into fists.

When they returned, they brought back a leaking drum for containment and disposal. It was supposed to be my job to handle the preliminary decontamination of the truck and their gear. As I was doing a routine check on the truck's storage compartment, the damaged drum, improperly secured, shifted and tipped over.

A wave of viscous, foul-smelling liquid washed over my boots and soaked into the leg of my fatigues.

"Chemical spill!" I yelled, my voice tight with alarm. "I need decon, now!"

My colleagues, who were just a few feet away, froze. They looked at the spill, then at me, and then at Sabrina, who was watching from the doorway with wide, horrified eyes.

"It's the prophecy," one of them whispered. "If we get too close..."

They hesitated. They stood there, watching, as the chemicals started to burn through my clothes and into my skin. The pain was excruciating, a searing, white-hot agony.

"Help me!" I screamed, my professionalism dissolving into raw panic. "Anthony! For God's sake, help me!"

Anthony took a step forward, then stopped, held back by Sabrina's terrified gaze. He just stood there, his face a mess of conflict and fear.

They abandoned me. They let me burn.

I died alone in a sterile hospital room, my body ravaged by chemical burns, the smell of antiseptic unable to cover the stench of betrayal. My last thought was of Anthony's face, not filled with love, but with a terrible, calculated pity.