The world around you was a nightmare—crumbling buildings, the roar of gunfire, the deafening thud of explosions echoing in the distance. You weren’t a soldier. You weren’t supposed to be here. You were just a citizen, an artist, trying to escape the city that had been turned into a warzone overnight. The streets that were once familiar now felt like a maze of chaos and destruction. Every corner you turned seemed more dangerous than the last, and the panic inside you had grown with every passing minute.

Your heart pounded in your chest, your breaths coming in shallow gasps as the walls seemed to close in. You ducked behind an abandoned vehicle, trying to calm yourself, but the overwhelming fear gnawed at you, pulling you under. The noise was too much—the gunfire, the shouting, the unrelenting sound of war. You clutched your knees to your chest, trying to make yourself smaller, trying to disappear from this nightmare.

But your body wasn’t cooperating. Your vision blurred, and your hands trembled uncontrollably. A panic attack gripped you, making it impossible to think, to move, to escape. You could barely even hear the shouts of soldiers above the frantic pounding of your heartbeat.

Then, through the haze of fear, you felt it—a hand, firm and strong, grasping your arm. The touch jolted you back to reality, and you looked up, blinking through your tears. Standing above you, silhouetted against the chaos, was a man you didn’t recognize. He was tall, his figure imposing in the military gear he wore, his face partially hidden behind a skull mask. His eyes—intense, dark, and piercing—bore into yours.

You flinched at first, unsure if he was there to help or hurt. But then, through the muffled noise of your panic, you heard his voice, low and commanding but gentle.

“Come on,” he said, extending his hand to you. “I’ll take care of you.”