The morning sun in Los Angeles was already beginning to heat the asphalt. I parked the Ford F-150 at a prudent distance, allowing myself those final seconds of silence before diving into the chaos that is the life of a first responder. I carried my duffel bag over my shoulder; inside, the dark blue uniform, pristine, with the LAFD patch that felt like new armor—strange, yet necessary.
I walked toward the main entrance. The building was an imposing structure of glass and steel, a functional design that, to anyone else, would just be a fire station, but to me, it was the epicenter of a truth I had been tracking for years.
Upon entering, I headed straight for the locker area. That's where I saw him in person for the first time. A man of strong build, dark hair, and a serious gaze. He was putting his things into one of the assigned lockers.
"You must be Benjamin Olsen?" he asked, extending a hand while closing his locker. His voice had that calm, steady tone of someone who has kept their cool under fire.
"Just Ben," I replied, shaking his hand firmly. "And you must be Edmundo Diaz."
"Eddie. Eddie Diaz," he corrected with a small smile. "Looks like we're the new kids in class today."
"So it seems." I began to change, moving with an economy of motion that only years of extreme discipline grant you. "I heard you come from the Army. Combat medic, right?"
Eddie nodded, pulling on his uniform shirt. "Afghanistan. Two deployments. And now, here I am, trying to figure out how the city bureaucracy works. I hope we get along, Ben. In this job, the person next to you is the only thing standing between you and a very bad day."
"Count on it, Eddie," I said sincerely.
Through the glass separating the locker room from the common apparatus bay, my peripheral vision caught movement. I didn't need to turn my head to know who they were; their files were etched into my photographic memory as if they were a part of me.
Henrietta "Hen" Wilson, experienced paramedic, the team's moral compass. Howard "Chimney" Han, the veteran who has survived the impossible. Evan "Buck" Buckley, young, impetuous, with an energy that filled the room. And presiding over the group, Robert Nash. They were talking amongst themselves, but the curiosity regarding the "new guys" was palpable in the air.
Suddenly, I saw Chimney gesture. He had noticed our presence behind the glass. He said something in a low voice, likely a witty remark, and they all turned to look. I played it cool, focusing on adjusting my boots, pretending I didn't feel the weight of four pairs of eyes evaluating my capability before the first bell even rang.
"I think we're the morning show," Eddie murmured, also noticing the attention.
"Better give them something good to look at then," I replied with a half-smile.
We finished adjusting our uniforms and stepped out of the locker room. Seeing us emerge, the group approached. Bobby led the way with that authoritative calm that, up close, felt both familiar and distant.
"Good morning," Bobby said, his voice echoing in the bay. "A-Shift, these are the new recruits I told you about. Edmundo Diaz and Benjamin Vega."
Hen was the first to step forward with a welcoming smile. "Hen Wilson. Welcome to the family. If you need to know where we keep the real medical supplies and not the ones Chimney hides, come to me."
"Hey!" Chimney protested, laughing as he extended his hand toward us. "Howard Han, but if you call me that, I'll think I'm in trouble. Call me Chimney. Good to meet you, guys."
I introduced myself to each of them, maintaining a cordial and professional tone. When I reached Buck, I noticed he had stayed a step back, arms crossed and an expression that mixed suspicion with clear jealousy. He had been the "baby" of the station until five minutes ago, and now he had double the competition.
"Buck," he said curtly, nodding his head.
"Ben. I hope we can work well together," I replied, ignoring his defensive stance. I knew Buck was all heart; he just needed to mark his territory.
Bobby intervened, breaking the initial tension. "All right, enough with the introductions for now. We have a twenty-four-hour shift ahead of us and the trucks aren't going to check themselves. Buck, you'll show Olsen and Diaz around. Show them the station protocols, where every tool is on the engine, and most importantly..." He paused and pointed toward the upper floor, "...there's fresh coffee upstairs. Be up in ten minutes for the formal start of the shift."
"Copy that, Cap," Buck said, though his body language suggested he'd rather be doing anything else.
Bobby turned to head to his office, but before leaving, his eyes met mine for a fraction of a second. There was no recognition, only the cold evaluation of a captain toward his subordinate. To him, I was still the "political favor" he had to keep an eye on.
"Alright, 'probies'," Buck said, using the rookie term with almost comical emphasis. "Follow me. This is the 118. It's not like the movies, so try not to break anything in your first hour."
I walked alongside Eddie, following Buck toward the engines. The smell of clean metal and disinfectant surrounded me. Day one had officially begun. From this moment on, Benjamin Olsen—the man of a thousand resources, the government ghost, and the secret son—had to disappear. Only the firefighter remained.
«Que comece o jogo» (Let the game begin), I thought, as Buck started explaining the engine inventory with an enthusiasm that clearly tried to mask his insecurity.
I went upstairs. The common area was spacious, with a stainless steel kitchen that seemed to be the heart of the station. The aroma of coffee flooded the room. I poured myself a cup before the shift started, feeling the heat of the liquid through the ceramic.
I looked around. Hen and Chimney shared a joke at the long table; Bobby was checking papers on the counter; Eddie seemed to be finding his place with ease. And I... I was in the center of it all, in plain sight, yet more hidden than ever.
"Black coffee, Olsen?" Bobby asked without looking up.
"Always, Captain. Helps keep the senses sharp," I replied.
"You're going to need all your senses today," he stated, finally looking at me. "In this city, Mondays tend to be busy. Get ready."
I nodded, taking a sip. I had no idea what kind of emergency Los Angeles would throw at us that day, but I was ready. I had trained my whole life for worse situations, even if no one in this room, except me, knew it.
The tour of Station 118, guided by an Evan Buckley overflowing with defensive energy, was an exercise in restraint for me. Buck moved back and forth, pointing out compartments on the engine and explaining safety protocols with the speed of someone trying to stake a claim. For any other rookie, the amount of technical information—from the torque of the hoses to the exact location of the extraction spreaders—would have been overwhelming. For me, it was like reading a children's storybook.
My eidetic memory recorded every detail: the wear on the third shelf of the tool compartment, the serial numbers on the defibrillators, the pattern of Hen's organization in the ambulance inventory. Buck assigned me a couple of simple tasks: checking the tire pressure on the ladder truck and organizing the trauma supplies. I did it with silent, mechanical efficiency. I could feel his gaze on the back of my neck, waiting for me to make a mistake, to ask something obvious. But I didn't give him that satisfaction. It almost made me laugh, but I held it in.
At 08:58 AM, the morning silence was torn apart by the shrill sound of the alarm. The loudspeaker came to life with a monotonous but urgent voice:
"Station 118. Industrial accident. Hector's Tire Shop. Adult male, compressed air trauma."
The shift in atmosphere was instantaneous. The relaxed camaraderie evaporated, replaced by high-level professionalism. I dropped the gauze I was counting and headed to the engine in one fluid motion. In seconds, we were all inside the vehicle: Eddie beside me, Chimney and Hen across from us, Buck at the end, and Bobby in the officer's seat, with the driver keeping the siren wailing as we cut through Los Angeles traffic.
The silence inside the cab was comfortable for the veterans, but Buck seemed to be sitting on hot coals. His eyes darted from Eddie to me, analyzing the "competition." It was Chimney who broke the ice, turning toward Eddie with genuine curiosity.
"So... is it true what Cap said? You have a Silver Star?" Chimney asked. It's not like Eddie wore it on his uniform, but information in a fire station flies faster than flames.
Eddie nodded briefly, keeping his gaze fixed on the window. "Yeah," he answered curtly.
"Wow," Chimney persisted, impressed. "Did you save a whole platoon or something on some forgotten hill?"
Eddie sighed, and I could see the tension in his jaw. I knew that look; it's the gaze of someone who would rather leave war memories in the desert. "Nothing like that. It was just a convoy," he said, nipping the conversation in the bud.
Chimney, always eager for data, then focused on me. "And you, Olsen? Do you also have medals hidden under that 'I wouldn't hurt a fly' face? Or some impressive story?"
I smiled slightly, maintaining my mask of neutrality. My true missions didn't come with public medals; they were whispers in the halls of Langley or the Pentagon. "No, no stars for me, Chimney," I said calmly. "Mine is more academic and practical. I'm a doctor, specializing in trauma and general surgery."
The silence that followed was absolute. Hen stopped checking her monitor and looked at me as if I had grown two heads. Even Buck seemed to forget his resentment for a moment.
"Wait, you're a trauma surgeon?" Hen asked, incredulous. "Ben, if you have those credentials, what are you doing here? You could be making ten times more at City General or running an ER department."
"I like being where the action happens, Hen," I replied, crossing my arms. "In the hospital, the patient arrives when the battle has already begun. I prefer to be there at the exact moment of the emergency, to help when every second counts. I don't have the patience to wait in a boardroom or a hospital hallway."
Chimney let out a nervous laugh. "Great. Now we have a combat medic and a trauma surgeon. Hen, we're going to be out of a job. These two are going to diagnose people before we even step off the truck."
"Unless it's a matter of life or death, you guys are still the paramedics in charge," I clarified, trying to soften the impact. "I'm just a firefighter today. But if you need an extra hand or an opinion in a critical situation, I'll gladly provide it."
An awkward pause followed. Being the rookie and having more education than half the station wasn't the best way to fit in, but I couldn't lie about my credentials. Hen, with her usual wit, decided to change the subject to ease the tension.
"Well, gentlemen... are you familiar with the LAFD 'Hot Firemen' calendar?" she asked with a mischievous grin.
Eddie frowned. "Excuse me? What?"
I just shook my head, smiling.
"It's for charity," Hen added while Bobby, from the front seat, let out a muffled chuckle. "And I think we're going to raise a lot of money this year with the new additions."
Buck decided to attack from another angle. He looked at Eddie intensely. "Is your name Eduardo?"
"No," Eddie replied without looking at him.
"So they call you Diaz? Usually, military guys go by their last name."
"No, not if you want me to answer," Eddie retorted, starting to grow tired of the interrogation.
Buck shrugged, looking for validation from the group. "Well, I'll have to call you something. We already have Cap, Hen, Chim, and I'm Buck. We can't call you Eddie, it sounds... too familiar."
That was the moment I intervened, trying to dissipate the cloud of hostility Buck was creating. "You can call me Ben," I said, looking at Buck directly. "Or Olsen, or whatever you prefer. I don't have a problem with labels as long as we get the job done."
"I think 'Doc' suits you better, but we'll see," Hen mentioned.
Eddie looked at Buck with a mix of confusion and annoyance. "I don't know if you're serious or if you're pulling my leg."
Chimney cut in before things escalated. "Look, new kid, I usually operate under the assumption that Buck isn't serious about anything. It's healthier for everyone."
The cab erupted in laughter, breaking the tension, though I could see Buck maintaining a sullen silence, staring out at the street as the truck turned the corner toward our destination.
We arrived at the scene. The shop was a chaos of rubber, pneumatic tools, and frightened employees. We jumped off the truck with surgical precision. Bobby took command immediately as we headed toward the back of the shop, where a group of workers surrounded a man on the floor.
"What's the situation?" Bobby asked one of the employees.
"It's Hector... he slipped," the man said, pale as a ghost. "The compressor nozzle... it got lodged in his butt cheek. I already turned the machine off, but we were afraid to move him."
We approached. Hector was in a forced fetal position, his body visibly distended, as if someone had tried to inflate him like one of his tires. The pressure of the air trapped under his skin was evident; even his eyelids looked swollen.
"Hector, can you hear me?" Bobby asked, kneeling beside him. The man nodded weakly. "Alright, hang in there, pal. Team, position! Get him on his side, keep pressure on the entry wound so he doesn't lose any more stability."
We moved in unison. We gripped Hector firmly but carefully. "On three. One, two, three," Bobby counted.
We lifted him and placed him gently on his side on the clean area Hen had prepared with a sheet.
"That's 100 PSI of air pumped through his entire body," Buck commented, observing the tissue distension.
Hen began auscultating immediately. Her eyebrows knit together in concern. "Shallow breathing, heart rate is skyrocketing. The air has traveled through the fascial plane... it's reached his stomach, chest, and behind the eyelids. What worries me most is the space around his heart and lungs. The air is displacing his organs."
"Diaz, get a nasal cannula on him," Bobby ordered. "Chimney, give him morphine. We need him relaxed so he doesn't fight the pressure."
"On it," Eddie replied, moving with the calm of a field surgeon.
Chimney tried to insert the needle into the back of Hector's hand but stopped short, frustrated. "It's like trying to put a needle into a rock. The skin is so taut there's no way in."
"Internal pressure is pushing everything out," Eddie observed, trying to place the nasal cannula. "I can't even get air through the nose; the upper airways are compressed."
"There's jugular venous distention," Hen added urgently. "Tachycardia, hypertension... respiration is dropping drastically."
I had seen it from second one. My brain had already processed the clinical signs: it was a tension pneumothorax. The air trapped in the pleural cavity was pressing on the heart, preventing it from filling with blood. If we didn't act, Hector would enter obstructive shock and die in seconds. But I stayed in my place, letting them lead, as I had promised Bobby.
And it wasn't about putting the patient's life at risk; I knew for certain they would solve this medical emergency.
"The pressure is collapsing his organs," Bobby declared. "We have to drain the fluid... the air. Buck, get a 14-gauge angiocath. We're going to decompress the pleura."
"I've got it, I've got it!" Buck exclaimed, rushing toward the med kit.
When he returned, Eddie offered to help. "Need a hand, Buck?"
"No, I've got it," Buck replied sharply, positioning himself over Hector.
Bobby looked at Hector. "Hang in there, friend, this is going to hurt a bit, but it'll help you breathe."
I watched as Buck prepared to insert the needle. His angle was wrong, and he was aiming too high for this patient's distorted anatomy. I stayed quiet, waiting for him to realize it, but it was Eddie who stepped in.
"Lower, Buck," Eddie said firmly.
Buck looked at him with fire in his eyes. "No. Second intercostal space, mid-clavicular line. It's standard manual protocol."
"The rib cage is thinner at the fifth intercostal, mid-axillary line," Eddie countered, unfazed. "With this much pressure, you decrease the risk of injuring any vital organs or major arteries there. I've treated dozens of guys with collapsed lungs in combat, Buck. I know what I'm talking about."
Bobby glanced at me. He was looking for silent confirmation. I simply gave a small nod, an imperceptible signal that Eddie was technically 100% correct.
"Diaz, do it," Bobby ordered.
Buck, visibly annoyed, handed over the 14-gauge angiocath as if he were handing over a grenade. "Take it."
"Thanks," Eddie said. He looked at Buck. "Can you help me by opening his shirt?"
Buck yanked at the fabric, and Eddie used his trauma shears to cut the undershirt, revealing the taut, shiny skin. With a swift, steady motion, Eddie inserted the needle into the fifth intercostal space.
Pssssssssssssssssssss.
The sound of high-pressure air escaping filled the shop. It was a long, almost musical hiss that signaled the release of imminent death. We all stood in silence, watching as Hector's chest began to settle into a more natural position.
Hector let out a deep gasp and began to breathe more easily. His eyes, previously bulging with panic, closed in relief.
"That's it, Hector," Bobby said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Breathe slow. Easy does it."
While we waited for him to "deflate" enough to stabilize him, I noticed the visual friction between Buck and Eddie. Buck was embarrassed and annoyed; Eddie was simply doing his job. Bobby noticed it too, crossing his arms as he observed his two new recruits.
Finally, the pressure dropped enough. "He's stable," Chimney announced as we helped load Hector onto the gurney. "Heart rate coming down, O2 sat rising to 95%."
As we loaded him into the ambulance, the shop employees, who had been watching with morbid curiosity, began to mutter. Suddenly, a series of thunderous noises—long, loud farts—began to escape from the patient as the air trapped in his digestive system found its natural exit.
Chimney and Hen exchanged a look of total surprise. "Well... pressure always finds a way to release itself," Chimney commented with a wince.
"It always does," Hen replied, stifling a laugh as she closed the ambulance doors.
We packed up the gear. The atmosphere in the truck on the way back was different. Hen and Chimney were congratulating Eddie on his quick thinking.
"Good call, Diaz," Buck said from his corner. His tone was flat—an attempt at sportsmanship that was clearly costing him due to his jealousy. "It was a good call."
Eddie nodded, halfway accepting the compliment. I sat in the back, watching the city pass by. My first official call was over. I hadn't had to use my surgeon's title, nor my hacking abilities, nor my languages. Just my hands and my presence. And for the first time in a long while, it felt like the right place to be.
Bobby looked at me through the rearview mirror. He didn't say anything, but there was a hint of respect in his gaze that hadn't been there an hour ago. The shadow game was only just beginning.