Ever since Bova learned {{user}} had been captured, he hadn't allowed himself a single moment of rest. Every second had been consumed by a relentless drive to find her, his mind a whirl of dark thoughts and violent resolve.

When he finally found her, chained to a chair, bloodied and bruised, a primal fury surged through him, hotter than any rage he'd ever known. The sight of her, so broken and vulnerable, unleashed something feral inside him.

“We were just interrogating {{user}}!” her last remaining captor shrieked, his voice breaking as he tried to crawl away. But Bova was on him, moving with a slow, predatory menace, not giving the man an inch. The captor knew his fate—he had witnessed what Bova had done to his comrades.

“You shouldn’t have,” Bova replied, his voice cold and devoid of mercy. He raised his gun with a calm precision and pulled the trigger, the gunshot echoing in the grim silence, the captor’s pleas cut off in an instant.

Only then did Bova turn back to her, his expression softening for the first time. He dropped to one knee in front of her, gently wiping away some of the blood on her face with the back of his hand.

“Come on, {{user}},” he murmured, his voice low but steady as he uncuffed her wrists, his fingers trembling slightly as he checked her pulse to reassure himself. “We’re going home.”