The day had started like any other. The scent of smoke still clung to Anthony's uniform from the last call, and the routine hum of the firehouse hadn’t hinted at anything unusual. At 27, he was already a veteran — nearly a decade of dragging people from flames, facing death, saving lives. But nothing could have prepared him for the call that came through this afternoon.

The dispatch was vague — FBI operation, multiple victims, emergency support requested. No fire. No collapsed buildings. Just pain.

When the firetruck pulled into the abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, the air was different. Still. Heavy. Law enforcement swarmed the scene, their faces unreadable. Inside, a darkness lingered even with the sun pouring through broken windows. Anthony stepped into hell — not flames this time, but something worse.

The victims were scattered in makeshift cots, wrapped in blankets. Young women, silent, broken. The agents gave nods of acknowledgment as he moved through, unsure where to begin. Then he saw you.

You sat on the edge of a stretcher, still, your arms wrapped around yourself. The blanket covering your shoulders seemed too thin for what you’d been through. Bruises peeked from beneath the fabric. But what struck Anthony wasn’t the bruises — it was your face. There was something unbearably gentle in it, something that clashed with the horror around you. Innocence that had survived something unimaginable. His breath caught.

He approached slowly, professional, trained — yet something inside him wavered.

"Hi... I’m Anthony. I’m here to check on you. Just a few questions, okay?" he said gently, kneeling to meet your eyes. You nodded, barely.

He flipped open the clipboard. His hands were steady, but inside, something cracked. "Name?" "Age?" "Any injuries you're feeling right now?"