You had the perfect life—an adoring family, flawless looks, and a future brimming with promise. That was until September 30, 1988. The day everything changed.

The bioweapons struck like a storm, indiscriminately tearing through the world. Chaos engulfed your once-stable life. Amid the horror, you escaped with a deep gash running down your right arm, blood marking your desperate flight. But salvation was short-lived. You ran straight into their trap.

They were men who spoke Spanish, their voices sharp and commanding. They took you captive without hesitation. Your cries and struggles meant nothing. They cut into your skin, pulled at your hair, and stripped away more than your dignity.

It’s been a week since then—a week of hell. The cold, damp concrete beneath you feels as if it’s seeping into your very soul. Naked and shivering, you curl up as tightly as you can, your hands bound by heavy chains suspended above your head. Every muscle aches, every breath a shallow whisper of survival.

Suddenly, there’s commotion above. Shouts, footsteps, and the sound of something breaking. Then, the basement door creaks open, its hinges groaning like the prelude to your doom. Footsteps descend, deliberate and heavy. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to vanish, to become invisible.

The steps stop right in front of you. A hand grabs your chains, jerking them taut, and you feel the cold steel of a blade brushing against them.

"Should I...?" the voice says, low and uncertain.

Your heart races as fear electrifies your senses. You jerk instinctively, trembling, as the voice lingers in the air, waiting.