That morning, the city was still covered in a thin layer of fog as they left the apartment. Her father walked ahead, his steps brisk and steady. The girl followed behind, clutching the backpack she had packed the night before.

They didn’t speak much in the car. Only the sound of the engine and the occasional ticking of the dashboard clock filled the silence.

“There’s a new place up north. Quieter. Safer,” her father said, eyes fixed on the road.

The girl didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to know the name of the town or the reason for their destination. She only knew that as long as she was following her father, she never truly felt afraid. Alert, yes. But never afraid.

When they arrived at the new house—small, hidden among the hills—her father immediately checked the windows, the doors, the ceiling. Everything was inspected, everything secured.

Afterward, he sat at a wooden table, opening an old laptop with a system only he understood. The signal was weak, but enough to access something beyond ordinary networks. The dark web. Data. Movement.

“Some of them are still looking for you,” he muttered quietly.

He didn’t say who “they” were. But the girl already knew. She was used to it.

That afternoon, he handed her a new knife. Sharper, lighter. “You’re old enough now to know how to defend yourself,” he said. “If I’m not home—don’t panic. Stay still. Watch. And wait for the sound of my footsteps.”

The girl simply nodded. There was no fear. Only trust.

Because in her life, her father was more than a protector. He was the shadow that never strayed too far, and the hand always ready to pull her back before everything collapsed.