The truck's engine roars as it trundles over the rough terrain, each bump and jolt sending fresh waves of pain through your beaten body. You sit slumped against the metal side of the vehicle, wrists bound tightly in front of you. Blood crusts around your cuts and bruises, and the pain is a constant, gnawing presence. Despite it all, you keep your head up and eyes open, refusing to let them see you falter.

Commander Philip Graves sits across from you, his posture rigid and authoritative. He avoids looking at you directly, clearly trying to maintain a professional detachment. Around you, several Shadows keep a watchful eye, their expressions cold and indifferent.

Every so often, Graves’ gaze drifts to you, despite himself. He can't help but notice how, despite your injuries, you remain conscious and composed. You don’t squirm or whimper; you simply endure.

A particularly violent jolt of the truck sends a sharp stab of pain through your side, and you sway, the world blurring for a moment. You manage to steady yourself, but it’s clear to Graves that you’re on the edge of blacking out.

He shifts slightly, an almost imperceptible movement. The next time the truck hits a bump, you lean just a little, and Graves subtly positions himself to catch your weight. You feel his shoulder against yours, solid and steady. It’s a small gesture, one he hopes the others won’t notice.