Crimson Oath | Chapter 6: Scene 1 — The Brass Monkey

Mia came for answers. Elijah brought the truth. But in Fell’s Point, nothing stays private for long.

Previously in Crimson Oath: Mia Caldwell survived a flashover that should have killed her, walking away with little more than scorched gear and questions she can’t answer. Elijah Kane, the medic who treated her, saw what shouldn’t have been possible. When a mysterious photograph of Elijah and her late father appears on her doorstep, Mia agrees to meet him at a waterfront bar in Fell’s Point.

October 18, 2003 - 1920 Hours

Eastern Avenue

Mia’s Saturn hummed down Eastern Avenue, headlights washing across brick rowhouses and corner stores with neon signs half-burned out. Her Ravens travel mug sat in the cupholder, the coffee long gone cold, but her hand stayed wrapped around it anyway.

98 Rock filled the cabin, late-night set pushing Linkin Park’s Somewhere I Belong through static and speakers. Chester Bennington’s voice strained against guitars that mirrored the churn in her chest:

“I want to heal, I want to feel like I’m close to something real…”

She tapped the steering wheel in time with the drums, trying to bleed nervous energy through her fingertips. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t even drinks with her crew. Just a conversation—and maybe, just maybe, some answers. Still, her stomach hadn’t stopped twisting since she’d pulled out of her driveway.

She found parking along Thames Street, two blocks from the water. Fell’s Point was alive this Saturday night: strings of lights draped over brick facades, couples spilling from restaurants, laughter carried by the harbor breeze. She tightened her jacket and walked toward the bar.

The Brass Monkey – 1930 Hours

The door creaked open to a wall of warmth and sound. The Brass Monkey was the kind of bar that wore its years with pride: tin ceiling stained with smoke from decades past, scuffed floors, walls crowded with Orioles pennants and yellowing photos of fire crews and dockworkers. A jukebox wheezed in the corner, competing with the pool table’s rhythmic clack and the bartender’s barked orders.

A neon Natty Boh sign glowed above the shelves, its winking one-eyed mascot presiding over a lineup of bottles. Even in 2003, Boh wasn’t brewed in Baltimore anymore, but in places like this it was still the beer.

Mia slid into a booth along the wall, half in shadow, where she could see both the entrance and the bar. Something she picked up from her dad: always keep the exits in view and don’t put your back to the door. Better to see what’s coming than to let it surprise you.

The waitress swung by, pen tapping a small notepad. “What can I get you?”

“Just a Natty Boh,” Mia said.

She half-expected the request to earn her an ID check, like always, but after a glance the waitress only nodded. “Got it. I’ll be right back.”

The bottle landed on her table a few minutes later, condensation sliding down the glass. Mia drank without thinking, then another pull, the weight of the day riding shotgun in her chest.

She’d drained the Boh without realizing it, the empty bottle catching the dim glow of the neon sign. Her finger traced the rim, slow circles keeping time with the jukebox while the noise of the bar blurred into the background.

She wasn’t waiting. At least that’s what she told herself. But the minutes stretched, and in the stillness between clinks of bottles and bursts of laughter, she caught the restless tap of her heel under the table.

That was when the door opened.

Elijah Kane stepped through.

It struck her that this was the first time she’d seen him outside of uniform. Gone was the crisp medic jacket, replaced with something quieter: a dark charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, paired with black slacks. Nothing flashy. Solid, steady colors. But on him, it didn’t read plain—it read intentional. Like he was built for shadows.

He scanned the room with a glance that seemed casual to everyone else but catalogued everything: exits, faces, threats. Then his eyes found her. At the same time, she somehow knew he’d already marked her table the second he walked in and was scanning for something else.

Mia sat up a little straighter.

Elijah crossed to the booth, movements smooth but unhurried, and slid into the seat across from her. The overhead light caught the faint lines around his eyes, the kind carved from long nights and longer memories.

“You came,” he said, voice low but warm.

“You asked,” she replied, trying not to sound too defensive.

The bartender passed, and Elijah raised two fingers. “Two Bohs.”

When the bottles landed between them, cold glass sweating in the dim light, Mia studied him for a long beat before speaking.

“I’ve been staring at that picture since it showed up today,” she said quietly. “The one in the envelope. My dad, and… you. Standing together like it was nothing.”

For the first time, Elijah’s composure shifted. Not broken—just thinner at the edges. He exhaled slowly, fingers brushing condensation from his bottle.

“Your father mattered,” he said finally. “To more people than you realize.”

Mia’s grip tightened on her Boh. “That’s not an answer.”

“No,” he admitted. His green eyes held hers, steady but unreadable. “But there wasn’t a question in what you said, either.”

Mia shifted her bottle between her hands, the Boh sweating cold in her grip. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on. I get some random photo of you and my dad and then you call me to meet. I don’t know what to do with all of this.” A pause, then quieter: “With me.”

Elijah tilted his head. “Go on.”

She hesitated. The jukebox changed songs. She opened her mouth—then closed it again.

Elijah studied her with those sharp green eyes, then leaned slightly forward. His nostrils flared just once.

“Smoke.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Not here. On you. Smoke that doesn’t fade. I’ve known it before”

The words hit harder than she expected. He’d already noticed. Already knew something was off.

She gripped the bottle tighter, pulse quickening. “Something happened last shift,” Mia admitted. “In the fire. It wasn’t luck, and it wasn’t training. I… stopped something that should’ve killed us all.” Her voice thinned as the memory surfaced—the beam, the flashover, the impossible calm in the middle of the burn. “I haven’t told anyone outside my crew. They know something’s off. We just don’t know how off.”

Elijah’s jaw flexed once, the only outward sign of tension. Then he leaned in, lowering his voice so only she could hear.

“You’re not imagining it. Some things don’t fit inside reports or training. Different—yes. But even you don’t know how far that goes yet.”

Mia’s eyes snapped up to his. “And you? You’re not like them either.”

His mouth curved, not a smile—more like a concession. “No. I’m not.”

For a moment the bar noise faded. Just two people acknowledging something the rest of the room would never understand.

Then the booth’s shadow shifted, breaking the moment.

Alex Rivera slid into the open end of the table, smile easy, cigarette smoke still clinging to his jacket.

“Small world,” he said, reaching for the untouched bottle in front of Elijah. “Didn’t expect to find my partner here.”