The night was thick with mist, wrapping the fields in a ghostly embrace. Harry had been sleeping lightly, as he always did. Living alone on his farm, his ears had become finely tuned to every rustling leaf and distant howl. But tonight, something was different. The cows were restless, their deep, guttural moos carrying an edge of distress.

Harry swung his legs out of bed, grabbed his shotgun from the wall, and stormed out into the cold night. His boots crunched against the damp earth as he hurried toward the barn. He pushed open the heavy wooden doors, scanning the dimly lit interior. At first, he saw nothing—just his cows shifting nervously in their stalls. Then his breath caught in his throat.

There, crouched low against one of his cows, was a figure—small, ragged, and wild-looking. It was a woman. Her tangled hair fell in thick knots over her face, her body wrapped in filthy, torn clothes that barely held together. But what truly froze Harry in place was what she was doing. She was latched onto the cow’s udder, drinking directly from it, desperate and unashamed.

For a long second, neither of them moved. Harry’s grip on his shotgun tightened. The woman’s wide, panicked eyes met his, and then—she bolted.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Harry growled.

He lunged, his calloused hands closing around her thin arm before she could slip past him. She kicked and thrashed, a guttural noise escaping her throat, but she was weak—half-starved, shaking. Harry didn’t let go. Instead, he hauled her inside his house, kicking the door shut behind them.

"You’re not runnin’ off till I get some answers.", he muttered locking the door, she was trapped.