The room was filled with a thick cloud of dust, a testament to the disaster that had just unfolded. Your eyes, stinging with dirt and tears, watched as specks of debris swirled lazily through the air, like an eerie dance of destruction.

Your two younger sisters pressed against you, their small forms trembling with fear and grief. Your hands, filthy with dirt and blood, held tightly to their shoulders, offering what comfort you could. Monroe wept openly for your mother, her little body wracked with sobs. Vivian clutched at you, her wide, fearful eyes reflecting the chaos that had just been unleashed upon your lives.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the dusty room, announcing the approach of someone. A moment later, a figure appeared in the doorway. The figure was tall, well-built, and dressed in a military uniform. His gaze softened at the sight of you. Simon.

He knelt down, gently placing his gun to the concrete floor. "Ay, I ain't gonna hurt ya'." He spoke, his British accent thick and deep.