Chapter 2: The Digital accelerant

Chapter 2: The Digital Accelerant

Sleep offered Leo no escape. The words from Aaron’s post were branded on the inside of his eyelids: Tasted like regret and cinnamon. The phrase was a venomous little hook, snagging on every good memory he had of Lieutenant Rivas. He saw her pulling him aside after his first real fire, her face smudged with soot, telling him, “You did good, kid.” He saw her organizing the fundraiser for a fallen firefighter’s family, her quiet strength holding everyone together. And he saw her at the station kitchen table, a dusting of flour on her cheek, smiling tiredly as she served up a slice of her latest creation.

Each memory was now tainted by that casual, cruel mockery. It was an insult that went far beyond a simple piece of cake. It was an attack on the very heart of their station.

Fueled by a cold fury, Leo turned his small apartment into an intelligence hub. For three nights straight, after his shifts at the mechanic shop and at the firehouse, he sat hunched over his laptop, the glow of the screen reflecting in his hazel eyes. He was no longer just scrolling; he was excavating. Aaron Vance’s digital life was a shallow grave, and Leo was determined to dig up every bone.

He started by creating a secure folder on his desktop, grimly naming it ‘Evidence.’ The first screenshots were of the apple crumble post. Then, he went deeper.

It was a rabbit hole of curated lies. He found a post from six months ago, before Aaron had even joined their station. It was a photo of a local news article about a multi-car pile-up on the interstate. Aaron’s caption: “Long night on the highway. Some things you can never unsee. Thankful for my training that helped me pull two people from the wreckage before crews arrived.”

Leo’s breath hitched. He remembered that night. He had been on the first engine to arrive. The scene was chaos and mangled steel. He knew every firefighter who had worked that rescue. Aaron Vance had not been one of them. A quick search of the news article itself confirmed it; the civilian heroes mentioned were a pair of off-duty nurses. Aaron had simply driven past the aftermath, taken a photo, and woven himself into the narrative as a hero.

Click. The screenshot was saved to the folder.

Another post showed Aaron standing solemnly in front of the department’s memorial wall, a hand over his heart. “Remembering the fallen. We stand on the shoulders of giants. It’s why we run into the fire when everyone else runs out.” It had hundreds of likes. Leo remembered that day, too. It was the annual memorial service. Aaron had shown up late, snapped the photo, and left before the service even began, telling another probie he had a “hot date.”

Click. Another drop of digital accelerant added to the file.

The pattern was sickeningly clear. Aaron was a vulture, feeding on the carcass of real sacrifice to build his brand. He collected tragedies and acts of bravery like they were trading cards. He found a photo Aaron had re-posted from another department’s page—a dramatic shot of firefighters battling a massive warehouse blaze. Aaron’s caption was slyly ambiguous: “Nights like these test your soul. Glad the whole crew made it home safe.” The comments were flooded with praise: “You’re a true hero!” and “Thank you for your service!” He never corrected them. He bathed in the stolen valor, letting the unearned gratitude wash over him.

The investigation became an obsession. Leo cross-referenced dates, times, and locations. He found Aaron’s profile on a fitness forum where he boasted about the physical demands of firefighting, describing calls he’d never been on and rescues he’d only seen on TV. He was a phantom, a ghost in the machine who wore the uniform but had never paid the price for it.

The turning point came when Leo found a post from just after the kitchen fire—the very call that had prompted Amy’s apple crumble. It was a selfie Aaron had taken, angled to show a sliver of the engine in the background. The caption was what made Leo’s blood run cold.

“Another kitchen fire knocked down. Quick work by the crew kept it from spreading to the rest of the house. Had to talk a rookie through his first real interior attack. You never forget the heat.”

Leo felt the air leave his lungs. A rookie? The only new person on that call besides Aaron was a kid named Tim, and Tim had been assigned to the hydrant with Leo. Neither of them had gone inside. The interior attack had been handled by Leo’s partner and one of the veterans. Aaron, as Leo recalled with burning clarity, had been directing traffic, a hundred feet away from any heat at all.

This was no longer just about stolen glory. This was a lie that could get someone killed.

Imagine a real fire, a disorienting, smoke-filled room where the temperature can melt steel. Imagine a real rookie, scared and counting on his partner’s experience, following the lead of a man who claimed to have been there before. A man whose only real skill was lying. Aaron wasn't just a narcissist; he was a liability. A cancer in the firehouse that needed to be cut out before it spread.

The next evening at the station, the weight of his secret knowledge made Leo feel like a stranger in his own home. He watched Aaron charm a visiting city councilman, telling an exaggerated story about the kitchen fire, this time with himself personally rescuing a cat. The councilman ate it up.

Clara, busy running diagnostics on the truck’s radio, rolled her eyes. She caught Leo’s gaze from across the bay.

“If his ego gets any bigger, we’re going to have to list it as a separate breathing apparatus on the truck roster,” she said, her voice a low, wry whisper.

Leo just nodded, his expression grim.

“You okay, Leo?” she asked, her blue eyes narrowing with concern. “You’ve been quiet all week. Quieter than usual.”

“Just tired,” he lied, turning away before his face could betray the storm raging inside him.

He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. This was his burden to carry. He had seen the serpent’s nest, and he knew that simply pointing it out wouldn’t be enough. People were charmed by Aaron’s slick exterior. A direct accusation would be dismissed as jealousy.

No, this required something more. An attack that Aaron couldn’t twist or lie his way out of. The evidence folder on his laptop was growing, becoming an arsenal. Each screenshot, each saved comment, was a carefully honed blade. The fire of indignation that had sparked in him over a piece of cake had been fed a steady stream of fuel. Now, it was a controlled, silent inferno, waiting for the right moment to be unleashed. He wasn't just angry anymore. He had a mission: to protect the honor of the uniform, and the family who wore it.