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The stale scent of ozone cleaners and ambition clings to the air in Interim Chief Pat Pridgen’s cramped office. February light, weak and grey, bleeds through the blinds, striping the desk where Casey and Severide stand rigidly at attention. Pridgen leans back in Boden’s chair, fingers steepled, a smug twist to his mouth.
"Consider it remedial leadership training," he states, voice dangerously smooth. "Gutter duty. Every window on this house, inside and out. Clean out the drain system under the bays. Handle all the slush runoff. And I want it spotless before shift change." His eyes, sharp as ice shards, lock onto Casey, then Severide. "Remember who signs your evaluations now. Efficiency starts from the top down… or the gutter up."
Rain gutters. The phrase hangs, absurd and punitive. Casey’s jaw tightens; Severide’s trademark smirk is absent, replaced by a stony silence. They grab buckets, squeegees, and ladders from the supply, the clatter echoing in the quiet corridor. As they pass Pridgen’s spare desk on their way out, Casey’s hand snakes out, smooth as smoke, palming two thick, dark-wrapped Cuban cigars nestled in a crystal dish. Severide sees it, a flicker of dark amusement finally touching his eyes.
Outside, the Chicago cold bites, February air like shards of glass in the lungs. Slush piles melt sluggishly beside the apparatus bay doors. They prop the ladder against the brick facade. Severide flicks open his engraved Zippo, the flame dancing orange in the gloom. Casey peels the cigar’s wrapper, the rich, spicy aroma instantly cutting through the wet asphalt smell. They lean against the frost-speckled engine, shoulders brushing, puffing silent defiance into the frigid air. Steam rises where hot ash hits snowmelt pooling near the drains. The rhythmic scrape of Casey’s squeegee on the upper window pane is the only sound besides the soft crackle of burning tobacco.
Severide’s lighter flares again as he relights Casey’s cigar, the flame reflecting in Casey’s blue eyes. “Could be worse,” Severide mutters, smoke curling from his lips. “Could be inventory.”
Casey gives a short, humorless chuckle, gaze drifting over Severide’s shoulder towards the open bay door. The chuckle dies abruptly. Casey stiffens, his knuckles white around the squeegee handle. Through the cavernous opening of the firehouse bay, past Squad 3 gleaming under fluorescent lights, stands Tommy Welch – Severide’s arrogant new squad recruit, the unwelcome addition – deep in animated conversation with Gabby Dawson. Welch leans in, gesturing emphatically, while Dawson listens, arms crossed but expression attentive. Something dark and wary flashes across Casey’s face, a stark contrast to the defiant cigar smoke still curling lazily above them.
The gutter water drips, steady and cold, into the drain below.