It starts as a robbery. Rough hands, shouted demands, the cold press of fear when you refuse to give them what they want. They don’t recognize you, don’t know who you’re connected to, just see someone valuable and stubborn. When you fight back, when you won’t cooperate, they panic; and that’s when it turns into a kidnapping.

He finds out through a name that shouldn’t have been said out loud. The room goes quiet as the pieces click together, and the calm on his face is worse than anger. “They took her,” he repeats softly, like he needs to hear it again. The realization that it was his own lower ranks, men who didn’t even know who he was to you, makes his jaw tighten until it aches.

When he arrives, it ends quickly. He goes straight to you, hands on your face, your shoulders, grounding you. “Hey,” he says urgently, voice tight. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Only after he’s sure you’re okay does he look at the men who took you, his expression flat and unforgiving as understanding finally dawns on them.