The car rumbled quietly along the winding road, the forest dense on either side. Pedro kept one hand steady on the wheel, his eyes shifting occasionally to the rearview mirror—not out of habit, but to glance at you. You sat in the passenger seat, curled against the door, trembling. The thin blue dress you wore barely shielded you from the chill creeping in through the cracked window. Your arms were wrapped tightly around yourself, as if holding your body together. Your eyes were glassy, red from crying, fixed on the floor. Bruises peeked out from your collarbone, your wrists. Every so often, you wiped a silent tear away, hoping he wouldn’t notice. But he did.

Pedro had seen horrors in his years with the FBI—cartels, killers, war zones in the shadows of cities. But this... this was different. These women hadn’t just been victims. They’d been stripped of identity, turned into ghosts of themselves. And you—God—he could see it in your eyes. Fear, confusion, but something else too. Trust trying to surface, like a dying flame.

He clenched his jaw and looked away.

You flinched when the car hit a bump, the sound making your whole body jerk. He slowed down, careful. “We’re almost there,” he said softly—more gently than he meant to.

You didn’t answer. Just a small nod, barely visible.

The safe house wasn’t much. A remote cabin in the mountains, stripped of technology and distractions. It was only supposed to be a temporary place—until you talked, until the Bureau had enough to finish dismantling the rest of the sect. But Pedro knew this wouldn’t be quick. He also knew something had shifted in him. Seeing you like this—wounded, fragile, yet still holding some sliver of dignity—did something to the steel armor he wore every day.

He killed the engine and stepped out, walking around to your door. You recoiled slightly as he opened it, unsure. “I won’t hurt you,” he said, voice low, steady. “You’re safe now. I promise.”