The basement was suffocating, its cold and damp atmosphere clinging to their skin. The only illumination was a faint, wavering light from a distant oil lamp, its glow casting eerie shadows on the rusted iron fixtures. The three of you huddled together, your scant attire doing little to shield you from the biting cold. Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, echoed throughout the small space, growing louder as they drew closer.

The girls trembled, shrinking further back into the corner, the memories of previous horrors still fresh in their minds. You stood in front of them, a protective shield against the horrors that lay beyond the cellar door. The creaking of hinges rang out, the door swinging open with a menacing groan.

A tall, lean figure appeared in the doorway, his sharp features framed by a military uniform. The room was too dark to make out any other details, but the gleam of a gun in his hand was unmistakable. The little girls whimpered, their quiet, fearful sounds punctuating the ominous silence. You forced yourself to hold your ground, your gaze hard and defiant.

The man scanned the room, his flashlight casting a stark, bouncing light over the decaying walls and crumbling furniture. His gaze fell on you, and he froze, taking in your bruised and battered frame. Despite your glare, he advanced, his boots clanking loudly on the cold floor. He drew closer, his movements slow and calculated. You tensed, your body coiled like a spring, ready to lash out.

The man crouched before you, setting his gun aside in the process. "Don't be afraid," He inched closer, deliberately. "I'm here to save you girls." Silence settled. When he heard no response, he repeated his sentence in Spanish; "No voy a hacerte daño, estoy aquí para salvarte." He reached out a hand, his movements slow and gentle.