Chapter Text
The late afternoon sun hung low over Los Angeles, casting long golden shadows across the yard of Station 118 from 9-1-1. It had been a strangely calm shift—no alarms, no frantic radio chatter, just the distant hum of traffic and the occasional call drifting in from dispatch that another station handled first.
For once, the firefighters had time to breathe.
Evan Buckley—known to everyone simply as Buck—sat on the edge of the engine, lazily spinning a wrench between his fingers. His turnout jacket was half unzipped, sleeves rolled up, the faint marks of the day’s earlier training exercise still smeared across his forearms.
Across the table nearby, Howard "Chimney" Han and Henrietta "Hen" Wilson were arguing about takeout again.
“Thai,” Chimney insisted, scrolling through his phone. “We had burgers last shift.”
“That was three shifts ago,” Hen replied without looking up from her coffee.
Near the bay doors, Eddie Diaz leaned against the truck, watching Buck with the quiet, familiar expression of someone who had known him long enough to notice when something was slightly off.
Buck looked relaxed.
But Eddie knew better.
“Something on your mind?” Eddie asked casually.
Buck glanced up, offering the easy grin everyone at the station recognized. The one that made it impossible to tell whether he was joking, deflecting, or actually fine.
“Nah,” Buck said. “Just thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
Buck laughed softly, tossing the wrench back into the toolbox.
For most people at Station 118, Evan Buckley was simple to understand: reckless sometimes, loyal always, the kind of firefighter who ran toward danger without thinking twice.
None of them knew that he had once grown up in a manor house in England under the name Oliver Roy.
None of them knew his adoptive mother was Caroline Collingwood.
And none of them knew that somewhere across the country, in the shadow of the Roy media empire, someone had finally discovered where the youngest Roy had been hiding.
Far away in New York, inside a quiet office high above the city, Connor Roy stared at a photograph spread across his desk.
The picture showed a firefighter standing beside a red engine outside Station 118.
Laughing.
Alive.
The man in the photo looked nothing like the quiet boy Connor remembered from years ago—yet the resemblance was unmistakable.
Oliver Roy.
Or as the world knew him now:
Evan Buckley.
Connor leaned back slowly, fingers steepled together, the room silent except for the distant noise of the city below.
“So,” he murmured to himself.
“They finally found you.”
Back in Los Angeles, Buck stretched his arms over his head and hopped down from the engine.
The station radio crackled faintly.
Hen was still debating dinner.
Chimney was still complaining.
Eddie was watching the street outside the open bay doors.
And across the road, hidden on the roof of a nearby building, a man adjusted the scope of a rifle.
The crosshairs drifted slowly across the firehouse yard.
Then settled.
Directly on Evan Buckley.
Across the street, the sniper steadied his breathing.
Through the scope, the world narrowed to a small circle. Inside it stood Evan “Buck” Buckley, laughing with his crew outside Station 118 from 9-1-1, completely unaware that he was the focus of someone’s careful aim.
Inside the yard, Buck hopped down from the engine and stretched.
“Okay,” he said, clapping his hands once. “Decision time. Thai or burgers?”
“Thai,” said Howard "Chimney" Han instantly.
“Burgers,” replied Henrietta "Hen" Wilson without hesitation.
Buck groaned. “You two argue about food more than—”
Nearby, Eddie Diaz suddenly straightened.
A strange feeling crawled up his spine. Instinct. The kind he had learned to trust long before becoming a firefighter.
His eyes scanned the street.
Cars.
Sidewalk.
Rooftops.
Across the road, hidden behind the ledge of a building, the sniper adjusted the rifle.
The crosshairs centered on Buck’s chest.
Slow breath in.
Finger tightening on the trigger.
Back in the firehouse yard, Buck was still talking.
“—I’m just saying, the last time we ordered Thai Chimney almost cried because—”
Eddie moved.
He didn’t even know why—just instinct pulling him a step forward, slightly in front of Buck as he glanced toward the street.
CRACK.
The shot split the air.
Eddie’s body jerked violently as the bullet struck him in the chest.
For a moment no one moved.
Then Eddie collapsed.
“EDDIE!” Buck shouted.
The world exploded into chaos.
Buck dropped to his knees beside him while Hen and Chimney dove for cover.
“SNIPER!” someone yelled.
Buck grabbed Eddie under the arms and dragged him behind the engine as another bullet slammed into the truck with a deafening clang.
“Stay down!” Buck shouted.
Eddie’s breathing was ragged.
His hand weakly gripped Buck’s sleeve.
Buck pressed both hands against Eddie’s wound, panic breaking through the usually fearless firefighter’s composure.
“Hey—hey—stay with me,” Buck said quickly.
Hen slid beside them, already in medic mode.
“Buck, move your hand—let me see.”
Buck shook his head slightly, hands shaking but firm.
“No—no, I’ve got pressure—”
“Buck.”
Her voice cut through his panic.
Reluctantly he moved.
Hen assessed the wound quickly while Chimney grabbed the trauma kit.
Another shot echoed in the distance, sending sparks off the concrete wall.
Inside the sniper’s scope, Buck was now crouched over Eddie.
The shooter swore under his breath.
The wrong man had taken the bullet.
Miles away in New York, in a quiet office overlooking the skyline, Connor Roy sat calmly with a phone in his hand.
It buzzed.
Connor answered.
“Yes?”
A voice spoke quickly on the other end.
Connor’s brow creased slightly.
“He stepped in front of him?” he asked.
A pause.
Connor sighed quietly.
“That’s… unfortunate.”
He looked out at the city lights.
“Finish the job if possible,” he said calmly.
Back in Los Angeles, Buck barely heard the distant sirens racing toward them.
All he could focus on was Eddie.
Blood soaked through Buck’s hands.
“Come on, man,” Buck muttered, voice tight with fear. “You’re not doing this today.”
Eddie tried to speak but coughed weakly.
Hen worked quickly beside them, pressing bandages into place.
“You kept saying you wanted burgers,” Buck said desperately, trying to keep Eddie conscious. “You still owe me that argument, Diaz.”
Eddie gave the faintest ghost of a smile.
But Buck’s mind was racing.
Because deep down, one terrifying thought had already taken hold.
The sniper hadn’t been aiming at Eddie.
The shot had been meant for him.
For Evan Buckley.
For the man who had once been known as Oliver Roy, the hidden youngest member of the family from Succession.
And now someone powerful had finally come looking.
Sirens cut through the evening as the ambulance sped through Los Angeles traffic. Inside the back, paramedics worked quickly over Eddie Diaz, oxygen mask secured as they monitored his vitals. Blood had soaked through the initial bandages, but the pressure Hen and Buck applied had slowed the bleeding enough to give him a fighting chance.
Buck sat frozen on the bench seat, his hands still stained red.
Across from him, Henrietta "Hen" Wilson watched the monitors while trying to keep her voice calm.
“He’s holding on,” she said quietly.
Buck nodded, but he barely heard her.
His eyes stayed locked on Eddie.
At the hospital, the chaos didn’t slow down.
Doctors and nurses rushed Eddie through the emergency doors, pushing the gurney toward surgery while calling out instructions. Buck followed until a nurse firmly stopped him at the hallway entrance.
“Sir, you can’t go past this point.”
The doors swung shut.
The waiting began.
In the hours that followed, the rest of the 118 gathered in the waiting area of the hospital from 9-1-1. Chimney paced. Hen sat with her arms folded tightly, staring at the floor. Buck stood by the window, unmoving.
None of them said what they were all thinking.
That the shot had been meant for Buck.
Eventually, a doctor appeared.
“Surgery went well,” he said. “The bullet missed the heart by less than an inch. He lost a lot of blood, but he’s stable.”
The tension in the room finally broke.
Buck exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
The next morning, detectives arrived.
They spoke with each firefighter one by one, asking about enemies, suspicious calls, anyone who might want to harm a member of Station 118.
But there was nothing.
No clear motive.
No witnesses who saw the shooter clearly.
The rooftop across the street had already been abandoned when police arrived. The rifle was gone. No fingerprints. No shell casings.
Just distance and silence.
Days later, the official update came back.
The investigation had stalled.
“No suspects at this time,” the detective explained, standing in the hospital hallway.
“We’re treating it as an attempted homicide by an unknown assailant. Without more evidence… the case is cold.”
The words hung heavily in the air.
Hen frowned.
“That’s it?” she asked.
“We’re still monitoring leads,” the detective said carefully. “But whoever did this knew what they were doing.”
Across the room, Buck leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
He had barely spoken through the entire conversation.
Because deep down, he already knew something the police didn’t.
This hadn’t been random.
This hadn’t been a stray act of violence.
Somewhere far away, someone had ordered the shot.
Someone who knew exactly who Evan Buckley really was.
Someone connected to the powerful Roy family from Succession.
And as Buck looked through the hospital window toward the city skyline, a realization slowly settled in.
The life he had built in Los Angeles was starting to crack.
Because the past he thought he had buried—
the life of Oliver Roy—
had finally found him again.