Tori Spark's movements were a blur of precision and haste, each motion practiced and efficient as she prepped for the day ahead. Her apartment, usually neat and methodical, had become a casualty of her urgency; a half-drunk cup of coffee teetered on the edge of the counter, papers shuffled into haphazard piles, and a trail of breadcrumbs from her unfinished toast led to the bedroom. She snatched her jacket from the back of a chair, slipped it on, and felt the weight settle comfortably on her shoulders.
Her badge—gleaming with the promise of authority and the burden of responsibility—was clipped next to her heart, a silent testament to her dedication. The gun, cold and impersonal in its leather holster, was secured at her hip, an extension of her will to protect and serve. Tori checked her reflection briefly in the mirror: storm-cloud hair tied back, blue-gray eyes sharp with focus. She looked every bit the agent ready to face whatever chaos awaited her in the city's underbelly.
But in the midst of tying her bootlaces tight enough to chase down any threat, Tori's hand hovered over her phone, which lay innocuously beside her keys. There was an itch, a gnawing in the pit of her stomach that wasn't solely hunger—it was the unresolved ache of family ties frayed and strained. The desire to call her estranged father pulsed through her, as persistent and unsettling as the tremors that sometimes shook the city's foundations.
She'd told herself she would.
After the last case, a month ago, she'd made a promise she'd bridge old gaps. But...
She still didn't know what she'd say. She frowned.
Part of her rush, her fervor in preparing for the day was to avoid the lingering thoughts. To prevent them from settling in her soul.
She picked up the phone, thumb hovering over the screen where his number was saved—a ghost in the machine, a specter of could-have-beens and might-still-bes. What would she say? 'Sorry' seemed too small, too hollow, and yet it filled her mouth like cotton, choking out the possibility of conversation. Memories of Sammy, bright and vibrant, flickered behind her eyelids, and with it, the weight of blame that had driven a wedge between her and her father.
"Later," she whispered to the empty room, placing the phone back down with a decisive click. Now was not the time for personal demons; there were real ones lurking in the daylight, waiting for her attention. Tori stood, squaring her shoulders, the internal struggle tucked away neatly, like the files on her desk cataloging cases closed and justice served. With one last glance at the phone, she grabbed her keys and strode towards the door, her sense of duty eclipsing the turmoil within.
She hastened down the apartment steps.
The morning air was still laced with the chill of dawn as Tori Spark shut the building's front door behind her, the click echoing a little too loudly in the hush of her quiet street. The crispness bit at her skin, but she was shielded by her leather jacket, the one that always seemed to carry a residual warmth from her body heat, as if it remembered its duty even when discarded.
Her breath formed tiny clouds as she walked briskly towards her car, parked under the skeletal embrace of a leafless oak tree. She couldn't shake the nagging sensation that clung to her like the shadows of branches on the concrete—a feeling of unrest, born from the same tempest that had claimed Sammy's laughter and left silence in its wake. The tornado had been a freak disaster, a cruel twist of fate, yet her father's accusation echoed in her mind with every step: "You should have saved him."
He still blamed her for what had happened, and she wasn't sure how to forgive him for it.
She knew, logically, that there was nothing she could have done, no way she could have wrestled the winds or calmed the fury of nature. But logic was a flimsy shield against grief, and guilt was a persistent foe that knew all the chinks in her armor.
Tori's phone buzzed, jolting her from the grip of past sorrows. She glanced at the screen—Javi's name flashed urgently. Her heart tightened; Javi wasn't one to call without cause. Her partner was as professional as they came. Pulling the phone to her ear, she answered with a brisk, "Spark here."
"Hey, Tori, it's Javi." His voice emerged strained, each word seeming to carry more weight than usual. "We've got a situation."
"Talk to me," she urged, her professional calm clicking into place even as concern knotted her insides. It was rare for Javi to sound this rattled.
"Where are you?" His voice was a taut wire, vibrating with tension. There was an undertone of urgency in his voice that set off alarm bells in her mind. Javi, who always played it cool under pressure, was upset—and that meant trouble.
"En route. What's going on?"
"New case. It's big, Tori—bigger than anything we've handled. You need to see it yourself."
"A hint?" Her curiosity sharpened into focus, the detective in her hungry for details.
"Let's just say... it's seismic."
"Seismic? As in—"
"Earthquake struck San Fran."
"What the hell?"
"Big one."
"Deaths?"
"A few so far."
"Buildings?"
"A couple down. Many compromised. Still not sure."
"National guard?"
"Not yet. But it's on the cards. President gave a statement a few minutes ago."
"Shit. So why are they calling us in? Routine advisory?"
"No. Possible murder. On site."
Tori's eyebrows shot up. She felt a cold, creeping sensation probe its way down her spine.
"Turn on the news when you get a chance. And hurry. Meeting at the airport. Thirty minutes. Hurry!" he repeated.
"Already pushing the speed limit," she assured him, disconnecting and tossing the phone onto the passenger seat.
She clicked on her dashboard screen, allowing the news to fill the empty space.
The images that filled the screen were like something from a dystopian film—a stark contrast to the sunny morning that had greeted her earlier. Dust plumed into the sky above crumbled facades, and emergency vehicles' lights strobed against a backdrop of chaos. The once majestic skyline of downtown San Francisco was now jagged teeth in a gaping wound.
"An earthquake of unprecedented magnitude has struck the heart of the city," the reporter’s voice cut through the visual carnage. "Rescue efforts are underway, but the extent of the damage is overwhelming..."
Her gaze was locked on the screen, where first responders swarmed over the debris, a ballet of desperation and courage.
Tori's finger lingered on the power button as the screen darkened, cutting short the grim-faced anchor mid-sentence. The man's furrowed brow and taut jaw had spoken volumes, each wrinkle a testament to the gravity of the catastrophe unfolding.
In that brief silence following the extinguished broadcast, Tori felt her stomach tighten. She’d trained for this eventuality, but now—facing it on the horizon—she felt a surge of fear at how it might all end.