The first thing everyone saw wasn’t the flames. It was the man lying flat across the front door of a burning house, arms spread wide, refusing to move while smoke rolled over him — and the strangest part was that he looked like he was protecting the fire instead of escaping it.

Big. Solid. The kind of build that doesn’t come from a gym but from years of hard living. Tattoos wrapped his arms—faded ink, old scars, stories carved into skin. His beard was singed at the edges, his face streaked with soot.

And in his right hand—

A small red toy fire truck.

Cheap plastic. Half-melted.

Gripped like it was the only thing keeping him alive.