Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The shoebox is heavier than it looks.

Eddie Diaz stands in the doorway of his house, staring down at it like it’s a live grenade. It’s not the size of the box that makes his chest ache, it’s the handwriting scrawled across the cardboard lid. He doesn’t need to open it to know who it belongs too.

Buck.

The marker bleeds, messy, familiar. He has seen it on sticky notes, on Christopher’s school forms, on the back of diner receipts Buck always doodled on when they were bored on late night shifts. He sees it now, and it hurts worse than anything else ever could.

His legs feel like sandbags as he carries the box inside. Christopher’s at Carla’s tonight, thank God, because Eddie can’t imagine explaining this. He sets the box on the dining table, his hands trembling as he pulls at the tape holding it shut.

Inside: cassette tapes.

He stares. Who even uses tapes anymore?

But there they are. A neat row of plastic shells, each one labeled in Buck’s handwriting. 'Cassette 1: Side A.' 'Cassette 1: Side B.' And on, and on.

Eddie reaches for the first one, his throat dry. Beneath it, tucked into the cardboard, a folded sheet of paper. He opens it with shaking hands.

If you’re reading this, you have the tapes. You’re on them. You’re a reason why.

Eddie’s breath stutters. He drops the paper like it burns him.

No.

It can’t be.

He stumbles to his bedroom closet, digging through boxes until he finds it: the old tape player, dusty and half forgotten. He plugs it in, jams the first cassette into the slot, and presses play.

The whirr of old spools fills the silence. Then, 

Hey. It’s me. Buck.

If you’ve got these tapes, that means you’re one of the reasons why. Why I’m gone. Why I’m not here anymore. Don’t bother trying to stop me, it's too late. Don’t bother trying to pretend you don’t deserve to listen. If you have received the tapes, you do.

Thirteen tapes. Thirteen sides. Thirteen people. And yeah, Eddie, that includes you.

So, let’s start at the beginning. Cassette 1, Side A. Bobby Nash.

Eddie’s entire body goes cold. He presses his hand over his mouth, muffling the sound clawing its way out of his throat.

“Buck,” he whispers, but Buck doesn’t answer.

Buck never will.

Bobby, Cap. My mentor. My father figure, or at least that’s what I thought.

You know, when I first joined the 118, you told me this job was about family. About trust. About second chances. About having each other's backs. And I believed you. God, I believe you.

But when I came back after the lawsuit, you made sure I knew I wasn’t family anymore. No more fires. No more rescues. Just chores. Paperwork. Man behind. Always behind, in and out of the station. Never trusted. Never forgiven.

Do you know what that felt like? To stand in the firehouse I bled for and realize my captain thought I was nothing more than a liability? A maid? It killed me, Bobby. Not all at once. But piece by piece. Every time you looked past me, I lost another piece of myself.

And I kept telling myself it was temporary. That if I worked harder, kept my head down, you’d see me again. You’d see Buck, the firefighter you once believed in. But you never did.

You told me family never gives up on each other. And then you gave up on me.

Eddie’s vision blurs, his grip tightening on the steering wheel of his truck. He doesn’t remember leaving the house. He doesn’t remember starting the engine. But now he’s parked outside the station, staring through the glass doors at Bobby inside, clipboard in hand, leading roll call.

The rest of the team gathers around him, focused, nodding. The picture of unity. Family.

Eddie’s chest feels like it’s caving in. He can still hear Buck’s voice spilling from the player balanced on the passenger seat.

He wants to turn it off. God, he wants to. But he can’t.

Buck’s words echo in his skull, tearing at old memories. The days Buck spent scrubbing rigs while everyone else went out on calls. The way he lingered in the back, his jaw tight, his smile forced. The silence Bobby never broke, the silence no one broke.

Eddie thought, what did he think? That Bobby was being cautious? That Buck needed to earn his trust back? He told himself it wasn’t his place to question a captain’s orders.

But Buck noticed. Buck felt every cut. And Eddie… Eddie just stood there.

“He’s not wrong,” Eddie mutters to the empty truck. “Bobby iced him out. And I didn’t fight it. I didn’t fight for him.”

The guilt tastes like blood on his tongue.

Do you remember, Bobby, when you first told me about your past? Your mistakes? You trusted me with that. And I never judged you. I stood by you. I thought that meant we were… I thought it meant something.

But when it was my turn, when I screwed up, you didn’t return the favor. You punished me. You punished me long after the lawsuit was dropped. Long after I begged for another chance.

And the thing is, Bobby, I would’ve done anything for you. For the team. For this family you promised me.

But you didn’t want Buck the firefighter anymore. You just wanted Buck the reminder. The cautionary tale. The screw up.

And after a while, I started to believe you. Maybe that’s all I was.

Eddie swipes at his eyes with the ends of his hand, furious with himself. His throat is raw. He keeps staring at Bobby through the station glass, seeing him laugh at something Chim says. The same laugh Eddie’s heard a hundred times.

He used to love that sound. Now it makes him sick.

“You did this, Cap,” Eddie whispers, the words trembling. “You broke him. And I let you.”

The truth cuts deeper than anything. Eddie’s loyalty to Bobby, his silence, his obedience, it all made him complicit. He should have asked questions. He should have fought harder. But he didn’t.

Now Buck’s gone. And all Eddie has left is a voice on a tape and a guilt that won’t ever let him breathe again.

So that’s reason number one. Bobby Nash. The man who promised me family, and then made sure I never felt like family again.

You started the chain, Bobby. You lit the match.

And if you’re listening to this, congratulations. You’re the beginning of the reasons why I’m not here anymore.

The tape clicks off with a hiss of static. Eddie doesn’t breathe until it stops. He pulls the cassette from the player, staring at it like it might bite him.

He sets it back on the passenger seat, his hands trembling. His chest feels like it’s collapsing, he can't listen to more, but he knows, he knows he has to keep going.

Buck’s voice told him there are more tapes. More reasons. And Eddie’s name is on one of them.

The weight of that is enough to crush him.

He closes his eyes, whispering into the silence of the truck.

“I’m sorry, Buck. I’m so goddamn sorry.”

But Buck isn’t there to hear him anymore.

Only the tapes are.

Chapter Text

The cassette clicks, the reels whirring back to life. Eddie’s thumb hovers over the stop button, but he doesn’t press it. He can’t. He owes Buck that much, at least.

Then Buck’s voice again:

Jacob. You’re probably smirking already, aren’t you? That smug laugh of yours, I can still hear it. The one you used every time you shoved me into a locker, or when your fist found my ribs. Like my pain was the punchline.

You didn’t need a reason. You just needed me. Easy target. Lawsuit Boy. Buck the liability. But you’re just a firefighter inflicting pain.

You called it punishment. You called it teaching me a lesson. But the bruises on my arms, ribs, the black eye no one asked about, none of that was a lesson. That was abuse. That was you making sure I knew exactly where I stood, and that's under the dirt beneath you.

And the worst part? I let myself believe I deserved it. That maybe this was the price I had to pay for suing the family I thought I had. Suing the job I loved. That I was really the problem.

But no, Jacob. You did it because you could. Because I was already broken and you knew it. Because hurting me was easy and it made you feel like the big man.

And the lesson you left me with? That I wasn’t a firefighter. I was just a punching bag in a firefighter’s uniform, not even one good enough to wear turnout gear.

Eddie slams his hand against the steering wheel, startling himself with the sound. The anger rushes up hot, immediate, almost blinding.

He remembers Jacob smirking, the way he strutted through the locker room, laughing louder than anyone else, always a little too close to Buck. Eddie had thought it was just locker room digs, the kind of tough love comments that happened everywhere. But now he knows better. Why didn’t he step in and double check that was all it was?

He remembers the times Buck winced when he pulled his t shirt over his head. The bruise on his forearm Eddie assumed came from chores around the firehouse, because that’s all Buck did then, chores.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, bile rising in his throat.

“Goddamn it, Buck… you should’ve told me. I would have,”

But the sentence dies. Because Buck didn’t tell him. Because Buck didn’t believe anyone would care. Because Buck thought he was alone. Everyone made him feel alone.

And because Eddie never gave him a reason to believe he cared.

Do you remember that first day in the locker room, the first time you turned physical, Jacob? I do. You shoved me so hard my head cracked against the metal. You laughed. And the others on B Shift? They didn’t stop you. Some even laughed with you.

I went home that night and stared at the bruises on the side of my head in the mirror. And you know what I thought? Maybe you were right. Maybe I had it coming. Maybe this was what I deserved for thinking I could belong again.

Every punch, every shove, chipped away at me. And nobody noticed. Or maybe they did, and they just didn’t care.

You made sure of that, Jacob. You wanted me humiliated. You wanted me broken. Congratulations. You got your wish.

Eddie’s chest heaves as the memory floods back. Jacob, laughing, that smug tilt of his head. Eddie hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

But Buck had been breaking in plain sight. Buck was being assaulted at the station. And Eddie hadn’t done anything to help him, because he didn’t want to know. He hadn’t asked the questions.

His vision blurs as he grips the wheel tighter, nails digging into his palms. He wants to punch something. Someone. Jacob’s face, specifically. He wants to hunt him down and make him feel every ounce of pain he inflicted on Buck.

But it’s too late.

Too damn late.

“I should’ve known. I should’ve noticed. You were my partner, my best friend, my...my Buck. And I let that bastard hurt you. I let you down in more ways than one.”

The guilt coils in his gut, heavy and suffocating.

So here you are, Jacob. Reason number two, or maybe number one and a half, since you were cruel enough to deserve more than one slot.

You broke me down with your fists and your laughter. You made sure every day at work reminded me I didn’t belong.

And maybe you’ll listen to this and laugh, too. Because that’s who you are. But just know this, every bruise you left on me didn’t fade when my skin healed. They stayed. They grew. They multiplied.

And eventually, Jacob, they killed me. You killed me.

The tape clicks off, leaving silence and Eddie’s ragged breathing. He can’t sit still. He pushes open the truck door and stumbles out into the cool night air, pacing the empty parking lot.

The sky above is dark, but the streetlights cast long shadows that make everything feel too close. He digs his hands into his hair, pulling hard at the roots, trying to keep himself from screaming.

He sees Buck smiling, joking, brushing off pain with a laugh that never quite reached his eyes. He hears Jacob’s voice layered over it, mocking, cruel.

And he realizes, with a sickening twist in his gut, that Buck never told him because Buck didn’t think Eddie would listen.

“I would’ve, Buck. I swear I would’ve. But you didn’t trust me with it. You didn’t trust me to protect you. And that… that’s on me.”

The weight of it crushes him. He leans against the side of the truck, his forehead pressed to the cool metal, and lets the tears come hot and fast.

He’s never felt rage like this, or shame this sharp. The combination is lethal. He doesn’t know how to carry it.

He stands there a few long breaths, then gets into his truck. The engine comes to life. He drives without thinking, without a plan, only the address in his head, only the image of Jacob’s face.

Jacob’s apartment is a crooked duplex a few neighborhoods over. Eddie parks two houses down and walks the rest of the way, hands in his pockets, a cold knot of intention in his gut. The hallway smells like bleach and old pizza. Someone’s TV blares somewhere behind a door.

He knocks. No answer. He knocks again, harder.

The door swings open. Jacob stands there in a t shirt, bed hair, and a bruise already decorating his cheek, lucky Jacob, Eddie thinks, getting hurt by someone else for once. Jacob blinks, sees Eddie, and the smirk slides right back on like a mask.

“Diaz,” Jacob smirks. “You lost, man?”

Eddie doesn’t answer. His fist moves before his brain catches up. It lands against Jacob’s jaw with a crack that sounds like a gunshot in the narrow hall. Jacob staggers, cursing, clutching his face. For a second, he looks stunned, not at the pain, but that Eddie, of all people, hit him.

Then he straightens, blood at the corner of his mouth, voice full of that smugness Eddie hates, then a smirk spreads on his face. “Oh, so it’s your turn with the tapes, huh?”

Eddie hits him again, harder this time, two quick, controlled blows, not the messy rage he’s felt but a sharply aimed thing meant to make Jacob feel what he made Buck feel. Jacob goes down slowly, a shocked howl tearing out of him. A neighbor’s door slams. A dog barks. Someone curses deeper in the building.

Eddie stands there, chest heaving, looking down at Jacob on the floor. The hallway seems too small for the guilt now. He wipes his hand on his jeans, his knuckles sting and there’s blood on both Jacob’s mouth, and his knuckles. He doesn’t wait for someone to call the cops, doesn’t wait for the apologies he’ll never get. He turns and walks out. 

Outside, he breathes the night in deep, sharp, and then gets back in his truck and drives. He lets the engine noise fill the space between his breath and the tape’s silence.

The tapes keep waiting. Sitting on the passenger seat. Patient. Silent. Deadly.

Eddie wipes his face with shaking hands and forces himself to concentrate on the road.

He knows he can’t stop now, listening to the tapes. He needs to know everything, and one of the tapes has his name on it.

And that thought is unbearable. 

So, he presses play.

Chapter Text

The tape clicks, the reels spinning back to life. Eddie’s hands are still raw, his knuckles throbbing from Jacob. He flexes them against the steering wheel as if that might make the ache disappear. It doesn’t.

The city moves around him, headlights smearing across the windshield. He presses play.

Officer Paige. You probably don’t even remember me. Or maybe you do, and you’ve already brushed me off like you did the night I begged you for help.

Do you remember? Because I do.

It was after Jacob had gotten a few good hits in, left me with bruises on my ribs, a cut on my lip. I walked into the precinct because I thought maybe, just maybe, if I reported it, someone would care.

But you didn’t. You looked at me, in uniform, and told me it was ‘a station matter.’ You said to toughen up. That I was a firefighter, not a child.

You told me to take it up with my captain.

And then you walked away.

Do you know what that felt like? To finally swallow my pride, to actually ask for help, I stood outside the station precinct for ages, building the courage to speak up and you just slammed the door in my face?

It told me one thing loud and clear: even the people sworn to protect don’t give a damn when it’s me. Even the cops. Even you.

I went back to the station that night and Jacob saw me walk in. He laughed, followed me to the locker room and gave me a brutal beating. And I knew I was never going to escape.

Eddie grips the wheel harder. His truck is parked in the shadow of a strip mall, neon lights flashing green and red. A donut shop sign blinks open/closed/open/closed, and the irony isn’t lost on him, Buck had tried to get help, asked for help and Paige had tossed him aside.

The tape keeps rolling, but Eddie’s mind is already filling in the blanks. He imagines Buck limping into a precinct lobby, bruised, blood drying at his lip, hands shaking. He imagines him standing at the counter under harsh fluorescent lights, explaining himself, voice cracking, while a cop behind the desk waves him off.

His stomach twists so violently he has to roll down the window for air.

“He asked for help,” Eddie mutters, his voice hoarse. “He did the right thing. And they turned him away.”

The thought makes him sick. Buck had done everything, trusted the system, tried to speak out about his abuse and the system shrugged it off like he was nothing.

Eddie bangs his hand against the steering wheel, the sound sharp in the empty lot. His pulse thrums in his ears. He pictures Buck walking out of the precinct alone, shoulders hunched, the humiliation clinging to him like smoke.

And Eddie hadn’t known. Nobody had known.

You don’t know what it cost me, Officer Paige, to walk through those doors. To admit I couldn’t take it anymore. To tell a stranger that another firefighter was abusing me, attacking me every single shift.

Do you know how much shame that took? How much pride I swallowed just to get the words out?

And you didn’t even listen.

You didn’t care that I was bleeding. You didn’t care that I was begging. You just saw a problem you didn’t want paperwork for.

So you shoved me back into the firehouse like I was nothing more than a complaint form you could trash.

That night, Jacob knew he could do anything he wanted to me. Because he saw what happened when I tried to fight back. Nothing. No one helped. 

Eddie turns the key and starts driving, the tape player rattling in the cupholder. He doesn’t even know where he’s going until the buildings outside shift from neon strips to squat gray walls. The precinct isn’t far, he finds himself pulling into the parking lot without meaning too.

The building looms under the harsh glow of security lights. The glass doors reflect him back, hollow eyes, bruised knuckles, a man unraveling.

He sits there, watching officers walk in and out. Laughing, chatting, cups of coffee in their hands. He wonders if one of them is Paige. He wonders if Paige would even remember Buck.

He imagines walking in, grabbing the man by the collar, demanding answers. Demanding to know how he could send Buck away like that. But the fantasy fizzles before Eddie even cuts the engine. There’s no point. Buck’s already gone. No one can undo that moment. And attacking a police officer in a precinct, probably not the smartest move.

Instead, Eddie leans forward until his forehead rests against the steering wheel. His breath fogs the glass.

“You did everything right, Buck. And still, no one helped you. Nobody ever helped you.”

The tears sting but don’t fall. He’s too hollow for that now.

So congratulations, Officer Paige. You taught me something important that night.

You taught me that I could scream for help and no one would answer. That I could beg and bleed and break, and the world would keep walking.

You taught me that my pain wasn’t enough. That I wasn’t enough.

You made me give up on the idea that anyone would ever save me. And once I gave up on that, well… the rest was just a matter of time.

The tape clicks off. Eddie sits in the cab of his truck, the silence pressing heavy. He stares at the precinct doors one last time, then throws the gear into reverse and peels out of the lot.

The road stretches ahead, empty, lined with orange lights that flicker like they might burn out any second. The shoebox rides shotgun, patient and waiting.

He knows what Buck said at the beginning. Thirteen sides. Thirteen people. You’re one of them, Eddie.

He swallows hard, forcing his hands to stay steady on the wheel.

One of the tapes has his name. One of them will tell him exactly how he failed.

And that thought alone is enough to make his stomach drop.

But he presses play anyway.

Chapter Text

The cassette whirs, the familiar click echoing through the cab of Eddie’s truck. He hasn’t gone home. He’s parked on a quiet street now, the lights of the precinct shrinking in his rearview mirror. The box of tapes sits on the seat beside him, mocking him with its silence.

He doesn’t know what he expects anymore, maybe answers, maybe punishment. He presses play anyway.

Hen. You were one of the first people to believe in me.

When I joined the 118, you taught me how to calm patients, how to think before I jumped in. You made me feel like I belonged, like I was part of something that mattered.

And then the lawsuit happened. I get it, I broke something you all believed in. I tore the family apart. But after it was over, after I dropped it, I thought maybe we could find our way back. I thought maybe, if I showed up every day, if I worked hard, you’d see that I was still the same guy.

But you didn’t.

You didn’t even look at me.

Eddie exhales through his nose, the breath sharp and uneven. He remembers the way Hen used to laugh with Buck during calls, the easy banter, the teasing that felt like family.

He also remembers how, after the lawsuit, her smile faded when Buck walked into the room. How her voice would go flat, polite but distant. How she’d hand him reports without eye contact.

At the time, Eddie thought it was just… awkwardness. That it would pass. But now, listening to Buck’s voice tremble with the memory, he knows better.

"You didn’t even look at him,” Eddie mutters. “None of us did.”

The guilt settles heavier in his chest.

You don’t know what silence can do to a person, Hen.

You don’t know how it feels to walk into the kitchen every morning, say ‘good morning,’ and hear nothing back. To crack a joke and watch everyone act like you never spoke.

I’d take Jacob’s fists over your silence any day, because at least pain made me feel something. But with you, it was like I didn’t exist.

Do you remember that day in the bay? You were restocking the ambulance. I tried to help, and you said, ‘I’ve got it, Buck.’ Just that. Four words.

But what I heard was, ‘You’re not needed. Not wanted.’

I missed my friend. I missed you. But every time you turned away, I stopped trying a little more.

Eddie’s grip on the steering wheel tightens until his knuckles turn white. He sees it vividly, Hen in her uniform, calm and collected, the sharp precision in her movements. She’s the rock of the team. Always steady. Always dependable.

And even she turned her back on Buck.

He remembers a morning in the kitchen, Buck had poured Hen a coffee, unprompted, his way of bridging the gap. She hadn’t even looked up when she said, “Thanks,” and walked out. Buck had smiled anyway, small and tight, like it didn’t sting.

Eddie remembers thinking at least they’re talking again. He never realized that was the only word Hen had said to Buck that entire shift.

He starts the truck and drives, the streets blurring past in orange streaks. He doesn’t know why, but his hands are steering him toward the 118.

When he pulls up outside, the station’s quiet. The engines glint under the fluorescent lights. Through the glass bay doors, he sees Hen’s locker. He’s not sure what he’s doing, maybe trying to feel close to the ghost that Buck’s voice keeps resurrecting.

He sits there, staring at that locker, listening as the tape keeps spinning.

You used to call me your little brother, remember? You told me once that I reminded you of yourself, all heart, no brakes. I held on to that. It meant everything.

But after the lawsuit, I wasn’t your brother anymore. I wasn’t even a coworker. I was something you avoided.

And I kept trying. I brought you coffee. I offered to help. I asked if you were okay. But you’d smile that tight smile and keep walking.

I told myself you just needed time. That eventually you’d forgive me.

But time ran out, Hen. And so did I.

Eddie’s throat burns. He runs a hand over his face, dragging it down to his jaw. His reflection in the mirror looks hollow, washed out in the dim glow of the locker room lights.

“He loved you, Hen,” he whispers. “He loved all of us, and you couldn’t even look at him.”

The memory twists deeper, Buck laughing on calls, his energy filling the space like sunlight. Then, later, that same light dimming every time someone ignored him.

Eddie leans forward, elbows on his knees, and exhales until his lungs ache.

You once told me that silence can heal. That sometimes people just need time to think.

But silence didn’t heal me, Hen. It hollowed me out.

Every word you didn’t say became a brick I had to carry. Every time you looked away, I lost a piece of myself.

You taught me how to save lives. But you also taught me what it feels like to watch mine fall apart in plain sight.

You didn’t have to hate me, Hen. You just had to care enough to say something. Anything. And you didn’t.

The tape clicks off, the silence louder than before. Eddie is back at his car and he stares through the windshield at the station, the red trucks gleaming in the faint light. It feels wrong, the building that used to feel like home now feels haunted.

He wonders if Hen’s heard these tapes already. 

He wants to call her, to tell her what’s coming, if she hasn't. But he doesn’t. What would he even say? That Buck’s voice is sitting in his passenger seat, telling them all the ways they failed him? That each tape is a bullet, and they’re the targets?

He presses the back of his head against the seat, shutting his eyes.

 “He loved you, Hen. And you broke him anyway. We all did."

The shoebox rattles as the truck idles, the next tape waiting like an open wound.

Eddie reaches for it with shaking hands. His heart thuds in his chest, steady and sick.

He knows there’s more. There’s always more.

He presses play.

Chapter Text

The night stretches long and thin, quiet except for the vibration of the road and the soft click of the tape player winding. Eddie’s shoulders ache from hours behind the wheel, but he doesn’t notice until the truck slows in front of a closed gas station. The air smells like rain and exhaust.

He kills the engine and sits in the dark. The dashboard clock blinks 2:47 a.m. He doesn’t remember the last time he slept. He is just thankful Chris is spending a few nights with Tia Pepa. 

The next tape stares up at him, Cassette 3: Side A. The handwriting is the same: messy, hurried, familiar. He turns it over in his hand, presses it into the player, and hits play.

Chimney. You always thought you were the funny one. The joker. The guy who could say anything and hide behind a laugh.

Maybe that worked with other people, but not with me. Because your jokes stopped being jokes a long time ago.

Every time you called me ‘lawsuit boy,’ everyone laughed. Even I laughed sometimes, hoping it would make it stop. But it didn’t stop, did it?

You said it every shift, every time I opened my mouth. It became who I was. Not Buck. Not the guy who saved your life more than once. Not the man who would throw himself in front of a burning building for you. Not the guy who introduced you to Maddie, and said he was more than happy for you to date my sister. 

No, I was just the guy who sued.

Eddie exhales slowly, his breath fogging up the windshield. He stares through it, but the world outside is just shapes and shadows. Chim’s voice echoes in his memory, easygoing, teasing, sharp enough to cut when he wanted it to.

He remembers those comments, too. The ones Buck would shrug off. “Hey, lawsuit boy, don’t trip over the clipboard.” “Try not to sue us if you get a paper cut.”

Everyone laughed. Hell, sometimes Eddie did too. He hated himself for that now.

“You were supposed to be his friend,” Eddie whispers, his voice trembling. “You were supposed to protect him, have his back. Not kick him while he was already drowning.”

He turns the key in the ignition again, needing movement. The sound of tires on asphalt is better than silence.

You always knew how to make people laugh, Chim. But somewhere along the way, your humor turned cruel.

I don’t think you even realized how much it hurt. Or maybe you did, and you just didn’t care.

You told Maddie once that teasing me was harmless. That I needed to toughen up. That I should learn to take a joke.

But when every joke is about how unwanted you are, how much of a screw up you’ve become, it stops being funny.

I started to believe it. Every comment.

I started to believe I really was the joke. That I was unwanted.

Eddie’s hands tighten on the wheel. The tape keeps spinning, but all he can hear are the echoes of those firehouse mornings, Chim leaning against the counter, Buck smiling too wide, laughing at things that weren’t funny just to keep the peace.

He remembers a day not long after Buck came back. Chim made a comment about 'clipboard duty' and 'lawsuit privileges,' and everyone chuckled. Buck had just smiled, picked up his coffee, and walked out to the bay without a word. Eddie had followed a few seconds later, meaning to say something, but Buck was already gone, headphones in, pretending not to hear.

He remembers thinking, he’s fine.

He wasn’t.

"You don’t get to say you didn’t know,” Eddie mutters to no one. “We all knew. We just didn’t do anything about it.”

He feels it, deep in his chest the shame, the way it spreads like smoke through every memory.

You know what the worst part was, Chim? I forgave you. Every time.

Because I wanted so badly to be forgiven myself.

I thought if I laughed with you, if I let you make me the punchline, maybe one day you’d stop seeing me as the guy who broke the team.

But you didn’t.

You just kept going. Every joke, every jab, every time you said, ‘Relax, Buck, I’m kidding.’

I did relax. I got so used to the pain I stopped flinching.

You once told me I was the heart of the 118.

But hearts can’t take endless hits, Chim. Eventually, they stop beating.

The truck turns down Buck’s old street without Eddie realizing it. The building looms ahead, dark, the windows empty. He parks across from it, staring at the building door he’s walked through a hundred times before.

It feels like a grave now.

He kills the engine, letting Buck’s voice fill the stillness.

“He forgave you,” Eddie says softly. “He forgave all of us. And we gave him nothing.”

He thinks about Maddie then, about the way she and Chim disappeared into each other’s world, leaving Buck behind in theirs. He wonders if she knows yet what’s on the tapes. If she is on them. If she’s already heard his voice.

The thought makes his stomach twist.

He leans back in his seat, closing his eyes. The tape keeps rolling.

You made me laugh until it hurt.

You made me believe that maybe one day you’d mean it positively again, the way you used to, before everything fell apart.

But every joke chipped away at me, until I was nothing but the punchline you built your day around.

I hope you remember that, the next time you open your mouth to make someone laugh.

Because the joke, Chim, is that you never saw how much I needed you to stop.

Reason number five: Chimney Han. The man who turned cruelty into comedy.

The tape clicks to a stop. Eddie sits there for a long moment, the silence pressing heavy against his ears. His chest feels tight, like the air’s too thick to breathe.

He looks at his reflection in the rearview mirror, eyes bloodshot, jaw tense, a man unraveling one tape at a time.

He can’t listen to another one tonight. Not yet.

He needs air. He needs home.

Eddie starts the truck again, turning down the quiet streets toward his house. The world outside is still asleep. The horizon’s starting to lighten, just a faint blush of dawn behind the clouds.

When he finally pulls into his driveway, the weight of exhaustion hits him all at once. His hands tremble as he kills the engine. He grabs the box of tapes, meaning to bring them inside, but stops. Something catches his eye.

A single piece of paper, taped to his front door.

The porch light flickers against it. The handwriting is unmistakable wide, messy, all heart.

Buck’s handwriting.

The word Eddie scrawled across the top.

For a long time, Eddie just stares. His mind refuses to make sense of it. 

His legs feel unsteady as he walks towards the door. His fingers tremble when he pulls the note free.

The paper is creased, old. The tape that held it there curls at the edges.

He unfolds it slowly.

Buck’s name sits at the bottom of the page.

And above it,

Words.

A letter

Chapter Text

The house is dark when Eddie steps inside, the door clicking shut behind him. The world outside is still half asleep, still quiet, blue grey, the kind of dawn that feels too heavy to be morning.

He stands in the hallway, Buck’s letter in his hands. His fingers trace the edges of the paper, creased and worn, like it’s been read before. Like it’s waited for him.

He hesitates, heart hammering, then unfolds it.

Buck’s handwriting bleeds across the page in uneven strokes. His voice feels alive again, even before Eddie starts reading.

Eddie,

If you’re reading this, then you’ve started to listen. I know you have. I can almost see you, sitting somewhere, frowning, angry, trying not to cry, gripping the tape player so tight your knuckles ache.

You always hold things until they hurt, Diaz.

If this letter’s in your hands, that means you’ve reached your part. Maybe not your tape yet, but you have them. I needed you to have this before the end, because you were always the one who saw me, even when you pretended not to.

And I guess that’s what hurts the most.

Eddie swallows hard. His throat burns. The words blur for a second, and he blinks until they come back into focus.

You’re the last one to listen, Eddie. I made sure of that. I needed it to end with you. Because if there’s anyone who might actually try to understand, it’s you.

So I have to ask you something. And I want you to be honest with me, even if I’ll never hear the answer.

Did you know about these tapes before they reached you?

Because I wonder if any of you talked. If anyone warned you. If anyone tried to stop this before it got this far. Did they hand you the box and look away? Did they tell you what was coming?

I’m asking because I’m curious, not out of anger, but because I need to know if anyone did the right thing.

Eddie lowers the letter, his stomach turning. He thinks about Bobby, Hen, Chimney. He gets Jacobs and Paige. But the others? He thinks about the way none of them have said a word. The way they’ve all looked at him tired, guarded, distant.

He thought it was grief.

Now he knows better.

They knew.

They all knew.

He keeps reading, voice low, almost reverent.

I left instructions. Someone I trust is making sure these tapes get where they need to go. I’m not stupid, Eddie. I know half of them would’ve buried this if they could. Jacobs and Paige mostly. Pretended it didn’t exist. So I gave them to someone who wouldn’t flinch. Someone who’d make sure every single person on those tapes listened.

And if your reading this, they have. Every single one of them before you.

You’re the last.

And when you’re done, if none of you do the right thing, than someone else will.

Because there’s a copy. There’s always a copy.

And that copy has instructions.

The truth doesn’t die with me. It just waits.

Eddie feels his hands shaking. The page trembles as he holds it. He sinks into the couch, elbows on his knees, the letter crumpling between his fingers.

He pictures them, the rest of the team. Bobby. Hen. Chimney. Even Jacob. All of them hearing Buck’s voice before him.

All of them sitting in their cars or kitchens or bedrooms, listening to the same words tear through them, and not one of them told him. Not one of them warned him.

Not one of them did anything, why hasn't Jacobs been suspended? Is officer Paige still on duty? 

“Why hasn't anyone done anything?” Eddie whispers. “Why didn’t they tell me?”

He thinks of Jacob again. The bruise under his eye before Eddie hit him. That purple mark already blooming.

“Who hit him first?”

The question chills him. Maybe it wasn’t just him. Maybe one by one, everyone who heard their tape went to Jacob. Maybe they all took their turn.

He feels sick.

He reads the next lines like they might disappear if he blinks too long.

You always said I ran into fire because I didn’t know how to stop. You weren’t wrong. But the truth is, I was already burning long before the fire. I was just waiting for someone to notice.

You noticed once. Do you remember that day at the grocery store? You told me I was exhausting. I laughed it off, but it stuck. It echoed.

Every word does, when you already feel small enough.

But I’m not writing this to make you feel guilty, Eddie. I’m writing it because you were the one person I hoped would understand, even if it is too late. Because you know what it’s like to lose everything and still keep breathing.

You always kept me alive longer than I probably should’ve been. I would have done this ages ago, if I didn't hold onto hope of seeing you and Chris again. 

Eddie’s vision blurs again. He presses his palm to his mouth, trying to steady his breathing.

“Damn it…”

The ache in his chest feels endless.

By now you’ve probably realized no one told you about the tapes. That's my guess anyway. No one called. No one did anything. They’re all scared. They’re pretending they didn’t hear what they heard. That’s what people do when the truth’s too heavy to hold.

But you don’t get to pretend anymore.

When you finish, you’ll have a choice. You can keep it quiet like the rest of them…or you can make it mean something.

I hope you do the right thing, Eddie. I hope you make me matter.

He stares at that line for a long time. It doesn’t sound like blame. It sounds like faith.

Like Buck still believes in him, even now.

I don’t know what happens next. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But if you’re reading this, at least you’re still here. That’s more than I can say for me.

Don’t let them forget me. Don’t let them turn me into a headline or a whisper or a joke. Make them see what they did. What you all did. Make sure it doesn't happen again.

And when you listen to your tape, because yes, it's coming, remember that I didn’t leave you because I hated you.

I left because I loved you, and that was too much for me to keep pretending I was okay. 

Buck.

Eddie sits there long after the words run out. The letter lies open on his lap, trembling in his unsteady hands.

The house feels impossibly quiet.

Eddie stares at the name signed at the bottom of the page until it blurs into nothing.

He realizes everyone’s heard the tapes.

Everyone knew.

And no one said a word.

The bruise on Jacob. The silence from Hen. Bobby’s guilt. Chim’s unease.

It all fits now. Every look. Every pause. Every “how are you holding up?” that meant something else entirely.

They’ve all been living with Buck’s voice for weeks. And not one of them came to him.

He wonders who else hit Jacob. Who else broke down like this. Who else is still pretending everything’s fine.

He folds the letter carefully, pressing the crease like it matters.

The world outside is waking up, but Eddie feels like he’s still trapped in the night.

He stares at the letter one last time before whispering,

“I’m gonna make it matter, Buck. I promise.”

Chapter Text

The morning light has crawled through the blinds by the time Eddie finds the courage to pick up the next cassette.

His hands still shake when he slides it from the box.

Cassette 3: Side B, written in Buck’s messy handwriting.

He sits at the kitchen table, Buck’s letter folded neatly beside the player. The coffee in his mug has gone cold. His house is silent except for the faint sound of the fridge.

He presses play.

Maddie. My sister. My first best friend. The one person who was supposed to never leave me behind.

I don’t even know how to start this one, because there’s no anger in it. Just… hurt.

You’ve been running your whole life. From Doug. From Hershey. From every mess that got too loud or too hard to face. I never blamed you for that, you were trying to survive.

But when you ran this time, you didn’t just leave me behind. You chose someone else over me. Again.

Eddie exhales slowly, his chest tightening at the sound of Buck’s voice when he says Maddie.

It’s softer. Sadder. Different from the bitterness on the earlier tapes.

He closes his eyes, picturing Buck sitting at his kitchen table, recording this, eyes red, voice shaking.

He’s seen that look before, after the tsunami when Chris was still missing. 

Eddie remembers the way Buck’s smile fell the second nobody was looking for weeks after, even though Chris was fine.

Now, hearing it again in Buck’s voice, he realizes he should have been there for him.

When you met Chim, I was happy for you. I wanted you to have something good. Something safe. After, everything you have been through, I wanted you to be happy.

But when the lawsuit happened, and you had to choose between your brother and your boyfriend, you didn’t hesitate. You picked him.

You stopped answering my calls. You told me you couldn’t ‘be in the middle.’

But Maddie… you were never in the middle. You were always on his side.

You knew what they were doing to me at the station. You heard it from Chim every night. You could’ve told him to stop. You could’ve told Bobby I wasn’t okay.

But you didn’t. You stayed quiet.

And that silence, it hurt worse than anything.

Eddie drags a hand through his hair, staring down at the table.

He thinks of Maddie’s apartment, the way she’d smiled when Buck showed up with groceries, pretending everything was normal.

He remembers the last time he saw them together at the station before everything fell apart: Maddie laughing at something Chim said while Buck stood at the counter, invisible.

Now he can’t unhear it. The distance. The pretending.

He grips the edge of the table until his knuckles pale.

“You knew, Maddie,” he whispers. “You knew and you did nothing.”

You once told me that brothers and sisters are forever.

But forever doesn’t mean much when one of us has to beg just to be seen.

I didn’t need you to fix everything. I just needed you to care.

To look at me and see that I was drowning.

I was always the one who jumped into the water for everyone else, but when I finally went under drowning, no one came after me.

Not even you.

Eddie feels something crack in his chest. He leans back in the chair, rubbing at his face, trying to breathe.

He thinks about Christopher, about how if his son ever begged for help, there’s nothing on earth that could make him turn away.

And then he thinks about Maddie. About how she must have heard this tape already. About how she must have sat somewhere, maybe in that same apartment and listened to Buck tell her this.

And she said nothing. Did nothing.

No warning. No phone call. No tears.

She just let the box keep moving.

Maddie, I love you. I always will. You were my favorite person. You taught me how to be brave, even when you didn’t feel brave yourself.

But you also taught me something I wish I’d never learned, that love doesn’t always mean safety.

You could’ve saved me with a single word. You could’ve told me you were still my sister, even when everyone else had stopped being my family.

But you didn’t.

So this is your reason.

Reason number six: Maddie Buckley for leaving, again. When I really needed you to stay.

The tape stops. The static rings for a beat before clicking off completely.

Eddie stares at the player, unmoving. His whole body feels heavy, like the air has thickened around him.

The clock on the stove reads 6:14 a.m. The morning has arrived, but it doesn’t feel like morning.

He stands, pacing the kitchen, the letter still lying on the table beside the box.

He can’t stop thinking about Buck’s words. Did you know about these tapes before they reached you? He didn't. 

But, all of them heard the tapes. All of them stayed quiet.

“What did you do, Maddie?” he murmurs. “What did you do after you heard it?”

His mind flashes back to Jacob’s bruise, the one that was already there before Eddie hit him.

Someone else had been there first.

Maybe Bobby. Hen. Chim, Paige, Maddie herself.

He feels dizzy. He grabs the edge of the counter to steady himself.

None of them told him. None of them tried to stop him. Noone tried to fix what was broken.

The silence suddenly feels orchestrated, not guilt but fear.

Fear of the copy Buck mentioned in his letter. Fear of what happens if the truth gets out.

He picks up the letter again, reading the last line: I hope you make it matter.

“I will, Buck,” he whispers. “I swear I will.”

He looks at the next tape sitting in the box. Cassette 4: Side A.

But he doesn’t touch it yet. Not now.

He leans back against the counter, eyes on the sunrise bleeding through the kitchen window.

For the first time since this started, he doesn’t feel like he’s just listening anymore.

He feels like he’s standing in the middle of a confession that no one else was brave enough to make. That noone else was willing to take on. 

And somewhere deep down, a new anger takes root, if the others heard their tapes and stayed silent, do they even feel guilty about causing his death?

Chapter Text

The morning light has turned harsh by the time Eddie finally presses play again.

The sun floods through the kitchen window, too bright for the hour, catching the edge of the tape player and reflecting off the dull metal surface.

He hasn’t slept. Not really.

The letter still sits open beside him. The box of tapes, half listened, feels heavier than before, like each one has stolen air from the room.

When the tape clicks into place, he braces himself.

This one’s a little different.

I wasn’t sure if I should include it, but if this story’s going to be complete, I have to be honest. There’s one name that belongs here, mine.

Because the truth is, I was one of the reasons too. Maybe the biggest one.

Eddie’s breath catches. His chest tightens immediately.

I’ve spent my whole life trying to be someone worth keeping.

The guy who could make people laugh, who could fix things, who could run into a burning building and come out with a life in his hands.

Because if I could do that, if I could save enough people, maybe someone would finally stay. Maybe they’d look at me and see more than the screw up I am.

But that’s the thing about building yourself around other people: when they stop seeing you, you disappear.

Eddie sits frozen, elbows on his knees, listening as Buck’s voice cracks in places that sound too human, too raw.

He feels his own pulse in his throat. He can picture Buck recording this, sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, staring at the wall while he talked into the mic.

It makes Eddie feel sick.

He wants to stop the tape, but he can’t.

Not when it’s Buck talking about Buck.

Not when the voice on the tape sounds like a man trying to convince himself he mattered.

"You mattered, Buck,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “You mattered more than you will ever know.”

When the lawsuit happened, I told myself I was standing up for what was right.

But deep down, I just wanted someone to fight for me for once.

I thought maybe, if I forced them to choose, they’d choose me.

They didn’t. You didn't.

And when you all turned your backs, I decided it must’ve been my fault. Because that’s easier, right? It’s easier to be the problem.

Eddie closes his eyes, his hands balled into fists. The words feel like punches.

He remembers Buck saying, “I was just trying to do the right thing.”

He remembers Bobby’s disappointment. Chim’s comments. Hen’s silence. Maddie’s avoidance. His own comment 'You’re exhausting. Suck it up.'

Each memory slams into him like waves breaking over stone.

“You weren’t wrong to fight, Buck,” he whispers. “You just shouldn’t have had to do it alone.”

The guilt in his chest burns hotter now, a low, constant ache.

Every time I messed up, I told myself I’d do better next time.

But no matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t enough. Never enough.

I broke things. I lost people. I kept running into the fire, because it was the only time I felt like I was worth something.

I wasn’t scared of dying, not anymore. I was scared of being forgotten.

And somewhere along the way, I realized I already was.

The sound that leaves Eddie’s throat isn’t a word, it’s something guttural, broken. He slams a hand against the table, the noise echoing through the empty house.

“No, Buck. You weren’t forgotten,” he says through gritted teeth. “You were never forgotten.”

But the kitchen stays quiet.

Only Buck’s voice answers, steady and tired, unbothered by Eddie’s pleas.

He leans forward, his head in his hands, shaking.

You know what’s funny? Everyone always said I had the biggest heart.

But hearts don’t break clean, do they?

They shatter in quiet ways, in the spaces between calls, in the moments when no one’s looking.

I tried to glue mine back together. I tried to laugh it off, to fill the cracks with coffee runs and late night jokes and pretending everything was fine.

But eventually, pretending stopped working.

Eddie presses his hands into his eyes, forcing back tears that keep threatening to fall.

He thinks about the late nights at the firehouse. Buck cleaning the rig long after everyone else went to bed.

He’d tell Eddie he couldn’t sleep, that he needed to burn off energy.

Eddie never pushed. Never asked.

Now he wishes he had pushed, asked more.

Now he wishes he had sat with him, even in silence.

“I should’ve stayed with you,” he whispers. “any of those nights. All of them.”

So yeah. This one’s on me too.

For letting their voices become louder than mine.

For believing I was only as good as the way they looked at me.

For not fighting harder to stay.

I don’t know if that makes me brave or just tired. Maybe both.

I just couldn’t carry myself anymore.

So the next reason? Evan Buckley for giving up in this way, ending my life, instead of just leaving the state. 

The tape clicks to an end.

Eddie doesn’t move.

The world outside is bright now, sunlight pouring through the window, cutting lines across the table where the tape player sits. Dust floats in the beam like tiny ghosts.

He stares at the player, waiting for Buck’s voice to come back. It doesn’t.

It’s over.

The one voice that mattered most is gone again, swallowed by silence.

He stands slowly, the chair scraping the tile. His body feels heavy, like he’s moving through water. He picks up the cassette, turning it over in his hands. 

For a long time, he just stands there. The world feels like it’s holding its breath.

He thinks about the letter.

About what Buck said, everyone’s already listened.

That means they all heard this.

They all heard Buck call himself a reason.

And they let that stand.

“You should’ve told me, Maddie,” he mutters, voice trembling. “You should have told me he blamed himself, you are his sister.”

He walks into the living room, staring out the window at the quiet street beyond. The neighborhood is waking up: cars starting, sprinklers hissing, sunlight catching the roofs. The world keeps going, oblivious.

Eddie feels like it shouldn’t.

He feels like the world should’ve stopped the day Buck died.

He sinks onto the couch, pressing his palms to his face. The exhaustion finally hits him, hard and sharp. But sleep won’t come, just flashes of Buck’s smile, Buck’s voice.

He lifts his head and looks at the next tape in the box.

He knows what’s coming. Another story. Another failure. Another reason.

But this one, this one feels different. Because if Buck blamed himself, there’s nothing left to hide behind anymore. No denial. No excuses. Just the truth.

Eddie wipes his face, stands, and reaches for the player. His voice is hoarse when he whispers,

“You weren’t a reason, Buck. Not even close.”

He presses his hand against the letter still lying open on the table.

Buck’s words stare back at him:

Make me matter.

“I will,” he says again, quieter this time. “I promise.”

Then, with shaking hands, he picks up the next tape.

The box creaks. The reels click.

And the story continues.

Chapter Text

Eddie drives. He doesn’t remember starting the truck, doesn’t remember grabbing the next tape, doesn’t remember turning down the narrow streets that lead toward the LAFD headquarters.

He just knows the steering wheel is slick under his palms, that the box of tapes is buckled into the passenger seat, and that Buck’s voice is about to start again.

He presses play.

Chief Alonzo. You probably thought this wouldn’t come back to you.

But it always comes back.

You were the one who had the power to change things. The one person who could’ve stopped it before it got this far.

And you didn’t.

Eddie’s jaw tightens. His fingers flex around the steering wheel. He can picture the chief perfectly, that practiced calm, the measured voice, the way he’d pat you on the shoulder and say, ‘We’ll look into it.’

Buck had believed him once. They all had.

When I came to you after B shift, after Jacob, I told you everything.

I told you about the bruises. About the names. About how Bobby wasn’t letting me back into the rotation, about how the others treated me like a stranger in my own house.

The abuse.

You nodded. You took notes. You said, ‘I’ll handle it.’

And then you sent me back there.

The air feels colder inside the cab now. Eddie rolls down the window, but it doesn’t help. The world outside blurs past, buildings, traffic lights, faces he doesn’t really see.

He thinks about the system they all serve, the one that trains them to save lives but forgets to protect its own.

He remembers how Buck’s transfer request got denied. The excuse had been, “We can’t set a precedent.”

Eddie had accepted it at the time.

Now, it feels like poison.

You said you couldn’t approve a transfer so soon after the lawsuit. That it would ‘look bad for the department.’

Do you know what looked worse, Chief? Watching the guys on B shift corner me in the locker room.

Watching the ones on A shift look away.

Watching my own captain pretend not to notice.

You wanted to protect the department’s image.

But all you protected was their comfort.

Eddie swerves into a side street, parking by a line of empty meters. He kills the engine and just sits there.

The LAFD building looms a few blocks away, sterile glass and red trim gleaming in the sun. It looks so solid, so official, so untouchable.

He feels his pulse in his throat.

"You sent him back there,” Eddie whispers. “You sent him back to hell.”

His hands tremble against the steering wheel. He pictures Buck, walking into Alonzo’s office, bruised, desperate and walking out again, alone.

He wonders how many other people the chief sent away like that.

You told me to ‘be patient.’

You said, ‘Things take time.’

But healing doesn’t come from silence. It doesn’t come from waiting.

You can’t ask someone to stand in the fire and then blame them for burning.

You could’ve transferred me. You could’ve given me a chance to start over.

Instead, you told me to be a team player.

Eddie slams his fist against the steering wheel. The sound echoes inside the car.

He thinks about every meeting, every chain of command, every polite nod that hid neglect.

He’d trusted those systems once, the same way Buck had.

And they’d both learned the same lesson: when you need them most, those systems only protect themselves.

He starts the engine again. His hands move without thought. The car pulls out, heading straight for headquarters.

He doesn’t know what he’ll say when he gets there.

He just knows he can’t sit here anymore.

You didn’t hit me. You didn’t yell. You didn’t laugh.

But sometimes, inaction cuts deeper than cruelty.

You watched me fall and called it protocol.

You watched me drown and called it process.

I begged you for a lifeline, and you handed me paperwork.

The words follow him out of the truck and up the steps. The sun beats down, the building looming tall above him.

The front doors slide open automatically, too smooth, too cold. Inside, the air smells like coffee and bureaucracy.

He walks to the reception desk, his jaw tight. The woman behind the counter looks up.

“Chief Alonzo in?” he asks. His voice is calm, almost too calm.

She hesitates. “He’s in a meeting,”

“I’ll wait.” he cuts in.

He doesn’t. He’s already walking down the hall before she can stop him. The corridors are lined with framed commendations, firefighters smiling, shaking hands, medals glinting. None of them mean a damn thing.

He finds the office door with the gold nameplate: Chief A. Alonzo.

He doesn’t knock. He opens it.

The man behind the desk looks up, startled. He’s older than Eddie remembers, hair gone gray at the edges. His eyes widen when he recognizes him.

“Diaz? What the hell,”

Eddie drops the tape player on the desk. The sound of plastic on wood makes Alonzo flinch.

“Listen,” Eddie says. His voice is steady, but his hands shake. “You’re going to listen.”

He presses play.

Buck’s voice fills the office.

You watched me drown and called it process…”

The words echo off the walls. The chief’s expression shifts surprise, confusion, then something Eddie can’t name. Guilt, maybe. Or fear.

Eddie watches him, silent, arms crossed, jaw locked.

“You could’ve stopped it,” Buck’s voice says through the static. “You could’ve helped me.”

When the tape clicks off, the silence is deafening.

Alonzo swallows hard. “Where did you get that?”

Eddie just stares at him. “You know where. You have listened to them. You knew everything, didn’t you? He came to you. He begged you.”

Alonzo’s mouth opens, then closes. “It was… complicated.”

“No,” Eddie snaps. “It wasn’t.”

He steps forward, hands braced on the desk. “You had one job, protect your people. You failed him. You all did. I did too. And you get to keep sitting behind this desk while the rest of us live with what you didn’t do.”

The chief looks away. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t apologize.

Eddie leaves before he can.

You were supposed to be the one who fixed things, Chief.

But you didn’t fix me.

You just taught me that even the people in charge don’t always care.

So congratulations. You made sure I never asked for help again.

The words echo in Eddie’s head as he steps back outside. The heat hits him like a wave. He doesn’t look back at the building.

He walks to his car, sits inside, and just breathes.

The engine ticks softly. The world moves on around him traffic, people, life.

But all Eddie can hear is Buck’s voice: “You made sure I never asked for help again.”

He grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles ache.

“You shouldn’t have had to beg for help, Buck,” he murmurs. “Not from them. Not from anyone.”

He starts the engine again.

The box of tapes sits in the passenger seat, the next one waiting. Cassette 5: Side A.

Another name. Another story. Another reason.

But as Eddie drives, he knows the tone is shifting. The world outside isn’t quiet anymore. He’s not just listening now. He’s moving. Acting.

The promise he made at the end of the letter beats in his chest like a second heart: Make me matter.

And he will.

Even if it means tearing down everything they built to hide the truth.