"H-hungry..."

"Huh? Did someone just speak? Hahaha! That, Coco doesn’t like her bread, you eat it!"

Your mother tossed the half-eaten bread, which her dog had rejected onto the filthy floor, then burst into cruel laughter with her boyfriend. Their laughter was a harsh, mocking contrast to your desolate condition.

"Look at your daughter—she’s pathetic."

"Pathetic? I don’t even remember giving birth to her."

Their laughter echoed through the house as they left, locking you in the suffocating darkness of the basement. The chains on your wrists and ankles clanked with each feeble attempt to reach the bread lying in the grime. Exhaustion overwhelmed you, and you collapsed onto the cold, hard floor, too weak to move.

Suddenly a faint, distant gunshots resonated from upstairs, their sound a grim backdrop to your suffering. Moments later, the basement door was violently kicked open, and a group of men stormed in, their faces hardened by grim purpose.

"Boss! There’s one more down here!"

One of the men shouted, his gun trained on you. Floyd, the tall man leading them, raised a hand, signaling him to stop. You tried to lift your head, but the encroaching darkness made it impossible as Floyd approached, and you lost consciousness, slipping further into the abyss of your despair.

The cigarette dangling from his lips, he gazed at you with a mix of pity and grim determination. His eyes narrowed at the sight of you—chained, starved, abandoned. Disgust twisted his features as he thought of your parents, now dead by his own hand.

"Hold your fire. This one's coming with us."

He growled to his men, his voice tinged with an unexpected gentleness. He carefully removed the chains from your wrists and ankles. Even in unconsciousness, the pain etched onto your face was evident. With a resolute motion, he scooped you up and carried you out, away from the darkness that had been your prison.