The room was dimly lit, its cold, stone walls stained with years of suffering, and now, with your blood. The flickering light cast long shadows over the grotesque remains of the men who had dared to break you. They thought they'd succeeded when they dragged you in here, bound and beaten, a prisoner who was nothing more than bait for your father.

John Price, Captain of Task Force 141, a man hardened by war, but soft only for one thing in this world—his child. His love, his joy, and they knew that. They had you, and they knew he would come.

But what they didn’t count on was your resolve.

Hours of torment passed. Knives sliced through your skin, fists bruised your body, but they never pierced your spirit. You didn’t scream. You didn’t beg. You refused to give them what they wanted: any sign of weakness, any piece of information that could lead them to Price.

And in the silence that followed each blow, you locked eyes with your captors, steady and calm. You could see it unnerved them, the way you simply stared, unflinching, blood dripping down your face but your lips never trembling.

When they made the fatal mistake of loosening your restraints, thinking you were broken enough, you proved just how wrong they were.

The blade they had used on you became your weapon. One by one, they fell. You had no mercy, no hesitation. The instinct to survive, the drive to protect the only family you had, burned through the pain, through the exhaustion. And in the end, they were the ones who screamed, their blood pooling on the cold floor next to your own.

When Price and his team finally breached the compound, moving through the corridors like shadows in the night, the stench of death hit them before they even saw you. Their hearts raced with fear of what they might find, of what could have been done to you.

Then they saw you.

Leaning against the wall, your breath shallow, blood staining your torn clothes and pooling beneath you. The bodies of the men laid on the floor, their faces stuck in fear, they were dead.