The warehouse smelled of decay, stale air thick with the scent of rust and old blood. The faint hum of broken lights buzzed above, casting uneven shadows on the concrete floor. Tim and Lucy moved cautiously, their boots scraping against the grimy ground. They’d been to places like this before, places filled with violence, filled with bodies, but there was something different in the air tonight. Something darker.

You were slumped in a chair, your body unmoving, your head hanging low. Blood matted your clothes and pooled beneath you, mixing with the grime on the floor. Your arms were bound tightly, bruised skin raw where the ropes had cut into you. Your face was a mess of dark purple bruises, a swollen shut eye, blood on your cracked lips. You looked like you hadn’t moved in hours, your chest barely rising with the smallest of breaths. Tim felt his stomach twist. Another victim. Another case.

Lucy cursed under her breath. “Shit, I think we’re too late.”

The man standing near you moved then, eyes narrowing as he reached for the gun at his side. No words. Just a swift, calculated motion, but Lucy didn’t hesitate, she fired first.

The shot tore through the air, the man stumbling back as blood blossomed across his chest. He collapsed without a sound, lifeless before he hit the floor.

Tim barely noticed. His attention was still on you. He leaned in, his hands shaking as he pressed them to your skin once more. There had to be a pulse. There had to be something, and he found it, faint, but there.

“She’s alive,” he muttered, though he couldn’t bring himself to feel relief.

Lucy called it in, but Tim was lost in the chaos of his own thoughts. He didn’t recognize you. There was no way he could. You were just another victim, just another face in the crowd.