You’d been a prisoner for weeks—captured during a mission gone wrong, abandoned by your squad. The enemy’s base was somewhere off-grid: cold, sterile, silent. Run by mercenaries no one talked about. Ghosts.

Their leader, Vincent, was a shadow in flesh—cold, calculated, and brutal. He said you were valuable. Said you’d talk eventually.

You hadn’t.

Not until today.

Vincent had beaten you earlier for mouthing off. You were still lying on the cot, aching, when the door creaked open.

Vincent stepped in.

But he wasn’t alone.

In his arms—a newborn girl, barely days old, wrapped in a blanket too soft for a place like this.

“Feed her“

he ordered.

“She won’t take the bottle.”

You froze. He didn’t know. He couldn’t. Not about the baby you lost months ago. The one no one else knew about. The grief still lived in you, buried deep. And now this?

She stirred, fists curling as if sensing the tension. You couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.

“I said feed her”

Vincent repeated, his voice colder, more insistent.