It started with a fire.
Not a metaphor this time.
A real one.
Small, contained, in a piece of equipment on the thirty‑second floor lab where Hale engineers tested prototype hardware for industrial sensors.
But it was enough.
Alarms.
Sprinklers.
Smoke.
Enough to trigger something in Declan he hadn’t let anyone see in years.
Margot was in the middle of a one‑on‑one with Gita, going over supplier satisfaction survey results, when the sirens went off.
“Not again,” Gita groaned. “Second time this month.”
“Contractors,” Margot muttered, gathering her things. “Always contractors.”
They filed into the hallway with everyone else, the drill practiced now.
Elevators locked.
Stairwells crammed.
She scanned the crowd.
No Declan.
“Go,” she told Gita. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
“You can’t take the elevator,” Gita reminded her.
“I know,” she said. “I’m going to check thirty‑two.”
“Margot—”
But she was already moving against the flow, slipping into the stairwell and down one flight instead of up.
Thirty‑second floor was hazy when she pushed through the door.
Alarm still blaring.
Sprinklers had gone off in one corner, drenching a section of lab benches, puddles forming on the floor.
A small, charred device smoked faintly in a containment hood.
Two lab techs hovered nearby with fire extinguishers, coughing.
“Everyone out,” she shouted over the din. “Now. Go.”
“We’re fine,” one protested. “It’s controlled—”
“Not the point,” she snapped. “Protocols.”
They exchanged a look, then moved.
She scanned the room.
There.
In the far corner, near the windows, Declan stood with his back to her.
Still.
Too still.
His hands were clenched at his sides.
His shoulders rigid.
“Declan!” she yelled, pushing through the damp air toward him.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t react.
She grabbed his arm.
He flinched so hard she almost lost her grip.
His eyes snapped to hers.
Wild.
Unfocused.
“Hey,” she said, forcing calm into her voice. “We need to go.”
Smoke curled around them.
The shriek of the alarm drilled into her skull.
For him, she knew, it would be like knives.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“You’re… here,” he said, voice thin.
“Yes,” she said. “So are you. Come on.”
He didn’t move.
Not really.
His muscles twitched under her hand.
Frozen.
Old habit had clearly kicked in—stand still, survive, don’t make it worse.
She saw it in his eyes.
He was gone.
Back.
Somewhere.
Server room.
Pilot.
Who knew.
“Color,” she said, remembering their shorthand.
“Black,” he said instantly.
Her chest clenched.
Okay.
On a scale that had started as a joke and become diagnostic, black was the worst.
Overload.
Shutdown territory.
“Okay,” she said. “We’re going to get you out of here. It’s loud. It’s bright. Your brain hates it. That’s… understandable. Breathe with me.”
She exaggerated an inhale.
One, two, three, four.
Hold.
Out.
Six.
He stared at her mouth.
Mirrored.
Once.
Twice.
The world around them continued to shriek.
“Can you walk?” she asked.
He frowned slightly. “I… don’t know.”
“Honest,” she said. “We love that.”
She slid her arm around his waist, under his blazer, gripping his hip.
Put his arm over her shoulders.
He was heavier than he looked.
Not in an unwieldy way.
In a dense, grounded way.
She’d never been this close to him while he was this… undone.
His breath hitched.
Her heart pounded.
Focus, she told herself. Not now.
“Left foot,” she said. “Then right. We’re going to the stairs.”
He complied.
Awkwardly.
Like he was learning to walk again.
They moved, step by wet step, past sputtering sprinklers and the acrid smell of burnt plastic.
In the stairwell, the noise was marginally better.
She steered him down.
One flight.
Two.
At thirty, the stream of people had mostly moved on.
She propped him against the wall for a second, catching her own breath.
His face was pale.
Sweat beaded at his temples.
His pupils were blown wide.
“Declan,” she said, softer now that she didn’t have to shout. “Talk to me.”
He swallowed.
“Server room,” he muttered. “Twenty‑six. Old building. Fire alarm. Water. Code. Gone.”
Her heart squeezed.
“That was… years ago,” she said.
He nodded jerkily.
“Feels… now,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “That’s how brains work. Annoying.”
He actually huffed a tiny laugh.
“Color?” she asked.
“Dark gray,” he said.
“Better than black,” she said.
“Semantics,” he muttered.
“Semantics matter,” she shot back out of reflex.
He smiled. Barely.
She waited.
Let his nervous system catch up.
They could have gone all the way down.
Out with everyone else.
But she knew crowds would be worse right now.
Noise.
Unpredictable motion.
“Thirty‑one is clear,” she said. “Nina’s floor. Quiet. Let’s go there.”
He nodded.
They climbed back up one flight.
Thirty‑one was mostly empty; HR and some smaller teams had already evacuated.
The alarm had cut off.
Blessed silence rang.
She steered him into a small glass‑walled focus room.
Closed the door.
Dimmed the lights.
Turned off the overhead entirely, leaving only the soft glow from the hallway.
He sank into the chair like someone had cut his strings.
She shut the blinds halfway.
Not fully.
He didn’t like opaque.
He liked seeing exits.
She remembered.
Sat opposite him.
Watched his chest rise and fall.
Faster than she liked.
“Do you need… anything?” she asked. “Water? Fidget toy? Darker?”
He blinked slowly.
“Control,” he said.
Her heart clenched.
“Over what,” she asked.
“Anything,” he whispered.
She nodded.
“Okay,” she said. “You get to call this. You tell me what happens next. We stay. We walk. We talk. We don’t. Your choice.”
He stared at her.
“You… stay,” he said.
She exhaled. “Okay.”
“And… talk,” he added.
“About?” she prompted.
“Not… fire,” he said. “Not… work.”
She thought.
Her brain flipped through neutral topics like index cards.
Weather.
Useless.
Sports.
He didn’t care.
She went with family.
“I almost punched a nurse today,” she said.
His brows drew together. “Why.”
“She told my mother she couldn’t give my father soy sauce with his dinner,” she said. “Ma was about to climb over the bed rail and smuggle it in. Nurse threatened to call security.”
He blinked.
“Your mother would have won,” he said.
“Obviously,” she said. “The nurse had no idea who she was dealing with.”
He smiled weakly.
“Baba threw a fit too,” she continued. “Said he’d rather die of flavor than live in blandness.”
“That tracks,” he said.
“My brother took video,” she added. “He’s threatening to blackmail them both with it at the next family gathering.”
“You have a… surprisingly functional brother,” he said.
“Don’t tell him that,” she said. “It’ll go to his head.”
He chuckled.
His shoulders dropped a millimeter.
“Color?” she asked.
“Gray,” he said. “Lighter.”
“Good,” she said.
He studied her.
“You didn’t… freak out,” he said.
“About what,” she asked.
“Fire,” he said. “Me. In it.”
She shrugged. “I freaked out internally. Externally, I’ve had six years of practice with my brother.”
He tilted his head.
There it was again.
The thing she’d only half‑admitted.
“You said he’s… on the spectrum,” Declan said. “Like me.”
“Different flavor,” she said. “Same ice cream.”
He smiled.
“How… is he,” he asked. “Your brother.”
Her eyes softened.
“Good,” she said. “Better. He lives in Jersey. Works at a graphic design firm that actually knows how to support autistic staff. Shocking.”
“And you,” he asked. “With him.”
She sighed.
“It was… rough,” she said. “When we were kids. When things fell apart with Baba’s business, David… imploded. Sensory stuff. School. Friends. He needed… a lot. And my parents were drowning. So I… stepped in.”
“Parentified,” he murmured.
“Don’t use therapy words on me,” she said. “That’s cheating.”
He smiled.
“Sorry,” he said. “Occupational hazard.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I became… coordinator,” she said. “Translating for doctors. Teachers. Neighbors. Running interference at family gatherings. Scheduling his OT. His group therapy. His everything. While also working two jobs and trying to finish college.”
He frowned. “Where were your parents?”
“Working,” she said. “Crying in the bathroom. Pretending everything was fine. They did… what they could. It wasn’t enough. So I did more.”
He swallowed.
“That’s… a lot,” he said quietly.
“Welcome to my origin story,” she said lightly. “It’s like yours, but with less code and more dinner prep.”
He huffed.
“Do you… resent him?” he asked.
“No,” she said immediately. Then: “Yes. Sometimes. I resented… the system. The way it made everything about his needs or my father’s losses, and never about… me. I resented that my life became one long calendar alert. And I resented myself for being *good* at it. Because then no one stopped asking.”
His jaw clenched.
“And now,” he said.
“And now,” she said, “I’m paid very well to do the thing I used to do for free. Except now, if I walk, the worst that happens is some billionaire misses a flight. No one loses their home.”
His lips twitched. “I lose my mind.”
“You have Kline,” she said. “You’ll be fine.”
He smiled, faint.
“Does he… know?” Declan asked. “Your brother. About… me.”
“He knows you exist,” she said. “He calls you ‘Autism Batman.’”
His eyes widened.
“I’m… sorry, what,” he said.
“His words, not mine,” she said. “He watched your TechForward talk and said, ‘He’s like if Batman went to therapy and stopped punching poor people.’”
Declan choked on a laugh.
“I… don’t know how to feel about that,” he said.
“Flattered,” she said. “He doesn’t hand out compliments lightly.”
He shook his head, still smiling.
“Color?” she asked.
“Yellow,” he said. “You’re… very distracting.”
“That’s my job,” she said.
“And my problem,” he said.
She froze.
The air shifted.
He realized what he’d said.
Cleared his throat.
“Work,” he said. “We should… go back.”
“Everyone’s outside,” she said. “We should… not, actually. Stay here. Ten more minutes. Then rejoin. After the all‑clear.”
He nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
They sat in the dim room.
The hum of the building filled the silence.
“What did the fire… actually trigger?” she asked gently. “Old pattern. New.”
He stared at the wall.
“Server room,” he said. “Year one. We’d just moved into the old space. Wiring was… bad. Alarm went off. Sprinklers. We lost a week of code. No backups offsite yet. My fault. My team’s hours. People cried. I… shut down. Didn’t move for… an hour. Taylor had to drag me out.”
“Taylor,” she said. “Your first EA.”
He nodded.
“She… found me,” he said. “Like you did. Made me breathe. Told me the building could burn down or we could rebuild. My choice.”
Her chest ached.
“And now,” she said softly. “Different EA. Same choice.”
He looked at her.
“I chose… rebuild,” he said.
She smiled.
“Good,” she said. “You’re getting better at it.”
He huffed. “Incrementally.”
She glanced at her watch.
“Five more minutes,” she said. “Then we face the horde.”
He groaned.
She grinned.
“You’ll be fine,” she said. “You have me.”
He met her eyes.
“I know,” he said.
The sincerity in it almost undid her.
Almost.
When the intercom crackled, announcing the all‑clear, she stood.
Held out a hand.
“Come on, Batman,” she said. “Back to Gotham.”
He took it.
His grip was steady.
“Don’t tell your brother I almost melted down in a lab,” he said.
“I’m telling him you save labs,” she said. “Not burn them.”
He smiled.
They stepped out together.
Flammable.
Functional.
Fighting.
Every day, it felt like a miracle.
Every day, they chose it anyway.