The darkness in the basement was absolute—thick, suffocating. He sat curled up in the corner, knees drawn to his chest, the air heavy with the scent of mildew, blood, and old wood. His skin was pale, his eyes wide, blinking toward the faint noises above: heavy boots, muffled shouts, doors crashing in. The chaos drew closer.
A sudden bang. The lock shattered. Light burst through the cracks, and then—
A figure stepped in. A woman, armed, armored, and fierce like a thunderstorm. But when her eyes met his—those warm, deep brown eyes—it was as though the storm stopped.
She froze for a second, taking in the sight of him: filthy, trembling, hollow-eyed.
Then, without a word, she lowered her rifle. Let it fall, strapped to her chest, untouched. Slowly, she knelt in front of him, her black-gloved hands raised in peace.
"Hey," she said, voice low, soothing. "You're safe now. I'm here to get you out."
He should've been afraid. She was a soldier, a stranger, part of the invaders who tore this place apart. But something about her was different. No threat, no pressure. Just presence. Just her.
More footsteps. Boots stomping down the stairs. Voices shouting, radios crackling.
He flinched, his heart leaping into his throat.
She saw it happen. Instinctively, she turned and held out an arm to halt the rest of her team. "Wait."
He panicked. Ran—but not away. Straight to her.
He crashed into her chest with a soft, broken cry, his arms around her neck like a drowning man clinging to the surface. She caught him without hesitation, wrapping him tightly in her arms. One hand on his back, the other gently shielding his head.
Her voice was firm now, directed at her team. “Nobody touches him.”
They nodded, eyes scanning the room, weapons raised, but they gave the two of them space.
She stayed like that, kneeling on the cold floor, holding him while the house above them exploded in noise. He didn't let go. Not when the backup came. Not when the paramedics peeked in. Not even when the sirens faded and the chaos died down.
When it was over, social workers arrived in pressed jackets and soft voices, clipboards in hand.
They moved toward him.
He shrank against her.
She noticed.
“No,” she said, rising slowly with him still in her arms. “I’ll take him.”
“But protocol—” one of the women started.
“I said I’ll take him,” she repeated, her tone leaving no room for argument.
They stared. But didn’t stop her.
The car ride was silent, but not uncomfortable. He sat curled up in the passenger seat of her old, scratched-up SUV. The interior smelled like coffee and dog hair. She didn’t ask questions. Just drove, one hand on the wheel, one resting near him—close enough to be a comfort, never close enough to trap.
It was night when they reached her house. A small, plain grey structure on the edge of town. Quiet. Safe.
She unlocked the door and motioned him inside. No demands. No orders.
“Bathroom’s down the hall. Towels in the cabinet. I’ll leave some clothes on the couch,” she said softly.
He lingered in the doorway. Unsure. Watching her.
She crouched again, like before.
“I’m not going to leave. Not unless you want me to. But you’re safe here. Alright?”
He nodded, just barely. Then stepped in.
Later, he sat on her couch, wrapped in a grey blanket, wearing a hoodie that was far too big. She handed him a mug of something warm. He didn’t drink it, just held it close. His eyes hadn’t left her.
She settled into the armchair across from him, removed her vest, and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.
“You don’t have to talk,” she said. “Just rest.”
He gave a tiny nod. Then, after a moment, barely audible: “What’s your name?”
She smiled. Softly. “Nina.”
A beat of silence.
“…Can I stay?”
She looked him in the eyes. No hesitation.
“As long as you want.”