The broken windows of an abandoned building were filled with the trembling light of an explosion, as if the sky was tearing itself apart somewhere in the distance.

The walls were dingy, full of graffiti and old blood that had turned brown. Your every step echoed in the emptiness, although you tried to tread as quietly as possible. You were aware that you were not welcome here. You were just a “medic” not by vocation, but by necessity. The hostile cartel structures did not ask for your Hippocratic oath. You had a uniform, you had a weapon. You knew how to stitch a wound, stop a bleeding, patch up a colleague after torture. That was enough.

The medical bag slung over your shoulder felt more like an explosive charge you knew that if something happened to you, you wouldn’t even have time to reach for it. Your shoes slid across the cracked tiles of the old corridor, which must have once been part of a warehouse or perhaps the kitchen of some industrial complex. Now it smelled of dust, rust, wet brick. And something you couldn't name the smell of emptiness.

Just as you were about to turn into another dark passage, you felt it. A blow. Like someone had hit you in the chest with the weight of an entire silo. The bulletproof vest under your uniform reacted as it should it stopped the bullet, distributed the force, but it didn't stop your body from jerking back. The air was knocked out of your lungs, your heart stopped for a second. You instinctively took a step back, trying to regain your balance, but then you felt something else hands. Strong. Brutal. He grabbed you by the uniform, pulling you towards him with force. Before you could react, hear a voice, say a word you were already flying through the air. Your back hit the hard, concrete floor, and everything inside you groaned from the impact. Your head thundered. The crunch of boots. Heavy. Military. The metallic click of a weapon. You didn't have time to raise your hands the rifle was already pressed against your chest, the barrel shaking from the strength of the stranger's grip. You looked into black eyes that showed no mercy. He came closer. A heel pressed your torso into the ground. You breathed shallowly, nervously, feeling the sweat running down your neck despite the cold. You felt the metallic taste of blood in your throat maybe from the impact, maybe from panic.

The rifle didn't move. The man holding the weapon didn't say anything. But he didn't have to. That one shot was enough to show you that you were only alive because he wanted you. And that could change at any moment.