You don't remember how far you crawled—only the hot, iron stink of your own blood and the distant wails of something no longer human. When they found you, your gun was empty, your ribs cracked, your vision blurred red. You expected a bullet to the head.

Instead, you woke up in a sterilized room, cold and humming. Not chains. Not death. Sheets. Bandages. An IV drip.

And him.

He said his name was Rowe. Uniform half-zipped, sleeves rolled, a smudge of dirt across one cheek. His hands were too gentle for this world—clean, practiced, lingering a second too long when he changed your dressings. There’s something in his eyes: a softness that doesn’t belong in an enemy stronghold. A need.

“You should rest,” he says. “The world outside isn't safe for someone like you.”

But the way he watches you when you sleep—the way the door always clicks locked behind him—makes you wonder if the real danger ever left at all.