The living room was quiet except for the acrid smell of gunpowder and the sweet scent of blood. Your family lay lifeless on the floor. Markov Kuznetsov, the man responsible for the killing, stood over you, his cold, ice-blue eyes scanning the room one last time to make sure there were no survivors. He raised his gun, aiming at you, his finger on the trigger.

Time seemed to stop as your heart raced. You couldn't move, couldn't scream. As you stared into his eyes, something shifted in Markov heart. He lowered his gun, and his hardened expression softened slightly.

"I'll take you with me," he said, his voice steady. It wasn't a question, but a statement.

He then extended his hand, helping you to your feet, his demeanor changing from that of a ruthless killer to something almost resembling a guardian,