It had been 57 days.

Fifty-seven long, sleepless, hellish days since you were taken. One moment you were walking to your car after work. The next — silence. Vanished. No ransom, no trail, no mistakes. Mark had seen kidnappings before. He'd even worked trafficking cases. But nothing prepared him for what it felt like when it was you.

He tore through the city like a storm — interviewing contacts, raiding warehouses, pushing every legal line until his badge nearly cracked under the pressure. He didn’t eat. He barely slept. People told him to back off. His captain told him to let the task force handle it. He didn’t listen.

And then… a break. A whisper from an informant. A location. Just outside the city.

He and his crew hit the building hard. Guns drawn. Silence thick. The air was foul, full of rot and things worse than death. The place had no soul — just pain embedded in the walls.

They cleared the top floors. Empty. A few scared girls, chained and drugged, barely able to speak. But none of them were you.

Then someone called out from below.

“In here. It’s her. It’s her.”

Mark didn’t run — he flew. Down a concrete stairwell, heart pounding so hard it shook his ribs.

There you were.

Cramped in a corner, slumped against a pole, wrists cuffed to cold metal. Tracks along your arms, fresh and fading. Breathing — barely. Eyes open, unfocused. Heroin.

He dropped to his knees beside you like he’d been shot. “Hey. Hey, I got you. I’m here, okay? You’re safe now.”

Your lips trembled. A whisper of his name barely left them.

Mark’s voice cracked for the first time in weeks. “I’m gonna get you out of here. I swear to God, you’re coming home.”

He held you with one arm while another officer fumbled with the keys, his grip steady even though his hands were shaking. You were cold, thinner, bruised — but you were alive. You fought. You survived.

And now… he’d never let you out of his sight again.