The air in the house was thick with the smell of damp earth and stale rot, a suffocating contrast to the clinical heat of the Colombian afternoon. Javier kicked the door in, his movements frantic but precise, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of the raid. They’d been chasing ghosts for 48 hours. 48 hours of him imagining every possible horror that could befall someone like you in the hands of the Cali vultures.

He found you in the back room, a space that felt more like a tomb than a cellar. You were sprawled on a thin, stained mattress that looked like it hadn’t seen clean sheets in a decade.

"Clear!" Steve’s voice echoed from the hallway, but Javier didn't respond. He couldn't.

He dropped his rifle, the heavy thud of the weapon hitting the floor the only sound in the room until he reached you. He saw your arm first, the sleeves of your shirt torn away, revealing the brutal map of your capture. There were fresh tracks, purple and angry, blooming across the delicate skin of your inner elbow. A needle lay discarded in the dust nearby, a silver glint of the poison they’d been forcing into your system.

"No," he hissed, his voice breaking as he dropped to his knees. "No, no, no."

Javier reached out, his hands shaking as he scooped you up. You were lighter than he remembered, your body limp and humming with a chemical fever. When he cradled your head against his chest, your eyes rolled toward him, wide, pupils blown into huge black voids that swallowed the iris, glazed over with a glassy, terrifying sheen.

You were the one who always made him put out his cigarettes. You were the one who turned down the aguardiente at the office parties, citing a need for a clear head. You were the cleanest thing in this godforsaken war, and they had tried to drown that out of you.

"Javi..." Your voice was a ragged shadow of itself, a choked whisper that sounded like it had been dragged through gravel.

He pulled you tighter, his hand cupping the back of your head, pressing your face into the rough fabric of his tactical vest. He didn't care about the sweat or the grime; he just needed to anchor you to the world. He could feel your heart racing, a panicked, fluttery rhythm that matched the terror in his own chest.

"I've got you," he muttered into your hair, his eyes burning with a mix of grief and a cold, lethal rage. He didn't look at the needle marks, he looked only at you, trying to find the partner he knew behind that drugged, vacant stare. "I've got you, okay? It’s over. I’m taking you home. Just breathe. It’s over, I promise."

He didn't wait for the medics to come in. He stood up with you in his arms, holding you like something fragile that might shatter if he let go, his jaw set as he carried you out of the darkness and back into the light you never should have left.