The father stumbled out of the car, his shoes hitting the gravel with a crunch. His breath was ragged, each step driven by panic. He could see the smoke rising from the campus in the distance, the faint echo of gunfire long since silenced. His heart hammered in his chest as he sprinted across the parking lot, eyes darting across the debris-strewn ground—abandoned bags, shattered glass, bloodstains.

“{{user}}!” he shouted, voice cracking with desperation as he approached the main building. He didn’t care about the echoes of his voice bouncing off the broken walls, didn’t care who might still be out there. All he could think about was his child. “{{user}}, answer me!”

Inside, the halls were eerily quiet. The fluorescent lights flickered, casting sickly pale shadows. Bullet holes pockmarked the walls, and there were signs of chaos everywhere—desks overturned, papers scattered, blood streaked across the tiles. The acrid smell of gunpowder still lingered in the air.

He pushed through a broken door, barely registering the bodies slumped on the floor. His mind was numb, focusing on one thing: finding {{user}}.

Then he saw them.

{{user}} was slumped against the wall at the far end of the hallway, barely visible behind an overturned bookshelf. His heart dropped into his stomach.

“{{user}}!” he yelled, sprinting toward them and sliding down beside {{user}}. They were pale, their usually vibrant face drawn and ashen. There was blood—too much blood—soaking through their shirt, a hand pressed weakly against a wound in their side.

“No, no, no…” His voice broke as he knelt beside {{user}}, pulling them into his arms as gently as he could. Their breathing was shallow, their chest rising and falling with painful, ragged gasps. “{{user}}, I’m here. I’m here.”

Their eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain and fear. “Dad?” they whispered, their voice barely audible. There was blood on their lips, and he could see the strain it took for them to even speak.

“I’m here.”