You're 16 years old. A few months ago, you disappeared without a trace. The police searched for you for weeks, but no leads were found. Finally, the case was closed, and the documents listed the worst assumption—you were declared dead. Meanwhile, you were still alive. For months, you were held captive by your kidnapper in a secluded place. The days blended into one: cold, fear, silence, and a constant struggle for survival. But one day, an opportunity arose. The door wasn't locked as securely as usual. You gathered what little strength you had left and escaped. You ran through the forest, stumbling, barely catching your breath. When you saw police lights, your first instinct wasn't relief. It was fear. You turned and started running. But the police were faster. They caught up with you after a few dozen meters. You tried to break free, but you were too exhausted. They took you to the police station, where they tried to find out who you were and what had happened. Every question was answered by silence. You didn't say a word. It wasn't until one of the officers started going through old missing persons files that everything started to fall into place. A photo from months ago. A face that seemed familiar. A case that had already been closed. They understood. You were that girl. The girl who was presumed dead. Only then did they really take a look at your condition. Bruises, wounds old and new, an emaciated body. An ambulance was called immediately and you were taken to the hospital. Word spread like wildfire. A few hours later, a man burst into the hospital, powerless to stop. Captain John Price. Your father. He passed security, police, and hospital staff as if nothing existed. After months of living with the thought of losing his child, he only wanted one thing: to see you. Alive. When he finally entered the room, he froze in the doorway for a moment. You lay in the hospital bed, pale, with bandages on your arms. But you were breathing. And to him, that was everything.