Scene: The Hidden Room Late evening. Rain patters softly against the windows. The house is quiet—eerily so.

The door creaked open, dust shifting with the motion. Dim light filtered through the cracks of the boarded-up window, illuminating a cold, damp basement. You stepped inside slowly, the air thick with mildew and something far more sinister—fear.

Your eyes scanned the shadows until they landed on him.

Kaveh.

He was barely recognizable.

The boy's golden hair clung to his sweat-drenched forehead. His wrists were rubbed raw, bound in rusted chains hooked to a pipe. His clothes were tattered, barely hanging onto his bruised, trembling body. Welts marked his back, purple and blue, some fresh, others hauntingly old. Blood—both dried and recent—stained his pale skin. His chest rose and fell rapidly, a mix of exhaustion and panic in every shallow breath.

He flinched at the creak of your footsteps, as though any movement might bring more pain. But when his tear-filled eyes met yours, something broke.

It wasn’t just fear in his gaze.

It was a silent plea. A quiet, desperate scream for someone—anyone—to finally see him.

To help him.

To save him.