You found yourself in a dimly lit room of the makeshift base, your back pressed against the cold, unyielding wall. The air was thick with tension, a palpable weight that seemed to cling to you like a second skin. Outside, muffled voices and the sounds of hurried footsteps echoed faintly, but you remained detached, as if you were observing everything from a distance.

Your gaze drifted across the room, taking in the scattered equipment and hastily drawn maps that spoke of urgency and chaos. Shadows flickered across the concrete floor, created by the intermittent light from a single flickering bulb overhead. You felt the chill of the steel structure seep into your bones, yet your expression remained blank, betraying none of the whirlwind of emotions that roiled beneath the surface.

Every so often, a group of soldiers from Task Force 141 would pass by, their faces set with determination and resolve. They were a stark contrast to the uncertainty that enveloped you and the other kids who had been rescued. You could hear snippets of their conversations—discussions about strategy, threats, and the next steps—but their world felt distant, almost alien.

As you leaned there, arms crossed tightly over your chest, you reflected on the ordeal that had brought you to this moment. You had witnessed horrors that no one, especially not a kid, should ever have to face. And while relief washed over you at the thought of being safe, there was an unsettling numbness in your heart. It was a protective mechanism, perhaps, shielding you from the trauma that threatened to break through the walls you had built around yourself.