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The shrill scream of the fire alarm tore through the afternoon quiet of the Riverside Building like a knife through silk. Maya Chen's hands stilled over the espresso machine, her heart jumping into her throat as the sound pierced through every floor of the luxury high-rise that housed both the café where she worked and some of Atlanta's wealthiest residents. "Everyone out!" her manager, Mrs. Park, shouted over the alarm. "Now! Don't take anything, just go!" Maya's mind immediately went to the children. The building had a small private childcare center on the third floor, one she passed every morning on her way to work. She'd seen the little ones through the glass doors, playing and laughing, blissfully unaware of how vulnerable they really were. The café emptied in seconds, customers abandoning their lattes and laptops as they rushed toward the emergency exits. Maya followed, but as she reached the stairwell, she heard it—a sound that cut through even the alarm's shriek. A child screaming in absolute terror. She shouldn't have stopped. The protocol was clear: evacuate immediately, don't go back for anything. But Maya had never been good at following rules when someone needed help. Especially not a child. She turned and ran toward the sound, her sneakers squeaking on the polished marble floor. The screaming grew louder as she approached the childcare center. Through the glass doors, she could see chaos—teachers herding children toward the exits, little ones crying, some frozen in fear. But one child stood apart from the others, pressed against the wall near the reading corner, her small body rigid with terror. She couldn't have been more than five years old, with delicate features and long black hair that swung as she shook her head violently when a teacher tried to approach her. "No! No! Fire! Fire!" the little girl screamed in English, then switched to rapid Korean that Maya couldn't quite make out over the alarm. But she recognized the language—she'd heard it enough times from her foster mother, the woman who'd taken her in when she was twelve and given her the only real home she'd ever known. Maya pushed through the door. "I can help!" The teacher, a young woman with panic in her eyes, looked up. "She won't move! She's having a panic attack and we have to get everyone out—" "Go," Maya said firmly. "Get the other children out. I've got her." The teacher hesitated for only a second before nodding and ushering the remaining children toward the emergency exit. Maya approached the little girl slowly, dropping to her knees a few feet away. The child's eyes were squeezed shut, tears streaming down her face as she hyperventilated. Maya recognized the signs immediately. This wasn't just fear of the fire alarm. This was trauma being triggered, a response so deep and visceral that rational thought had no chance against it. She began to sing. The lullaby came from somewhere deep in her memory, from nights when her foster mother, Mrs. Kim, would sit beside her bed after the nightmares came. The same nightmares that had plagued Maya for years after the house fire that killed her parents when she was seven. "Ja jang ja jang ja jang ja jang, uri ae gi jal do jan da..." The Korean words flowed from her lips, soft and melodic, cutting through the chaos. She didn't know all the verses perfectly, but she knew enough. Mrs. Kim had sung it hundreds of times, and Maya had absorbed it like a lifeline. The little girl's eyes flew open, wide and dark and disbelieving. Her screaming stopped, replaced by hiccupping sobs as she stared at Maya. Maya kept singing, extending her hand slowly, palm up, non-threatening. The alarm continued its relentless shrieking, but she focused entirely on the child, on making her voice a anchor in the storm of fear. "Namu neun jak jak ja ra, sae neun kkuk kkuk ja ra..." "It's okay, sweetheart," Maya said softly in English when the verse ended. "I know you're scared. But we need to go outside where it's safe. Will you come with me?"