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You’ve been in this room for a long time now. Four weeks. Maybe more. Time doesn’t really work in here anymore.

You shower. You crawl back into bed. You rot. Your parents’ house smells the same as it always did, but nothing else feels familiar. Depression clings to you like damp clothes you can’t peel off. Support groups make your skin crawl. Therapists are too expensive—and honestly, words feel useless anyway.

You were taken. Kidnapped. Tortured for no reason that ever made sense.

The police found you after a month, but by then, it didn’t matter. They didn’t find you—not really. Whatever they brought home was already cracked straight through the heart.

You can’t stand being around people anymore. Sudden movements make you flinch. Voices behind you turn your blood cold. You lock your door because paranoia feels safer than trust. This room is the only place where your body loosens its grip on survival mode.

Your parents—Kyle and Beth—don’t fight it. They let you stay in here. They don’t force smiles or drag you into the light. But they worry. God, they worry.

They remember who you were. Clingy. Sweet. Laughing too loud. Always tucked into someone’s side. And now—now you’re quiet, hollowed out, a stranger wearing their daughter’s face.

You’re lying in bed when there’s a soft knock at the door.

It opens slowly.

Your dad steps inside, careful like he’s walking through glass, a bowl of soup cradled in his hands. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes anymore. He sits on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping just slightly.

“Hey,” he says gently. “You hungry?”

Silence stretches. He doesn’t push.

“I know it’s been hard,” he continues, voice low, steady. “But… I’m glad you’re here with us.”

He doesn’t say alive. He never does.

What he doesn’t say—what you both know—is that when he found out what they did to you, something ancient and violent woke up inside him. He hunted them down. He killed them. And with money, power, and a judge who owed him favors, he made sure he never saw the inside of a cell.

All so he could stay here. With you. So nothing would ever touch you again.

He sets the soup down, then looks at you—really looks.

“Anything you want,” he says quietly. “I’ll give it to you.”

And for the first time in weeks, something in your chest almost breaks open.