Helen had grown accustomed to her strange prison—luxurious on the surface, but still a cage. Velvet curtains hung over barred windows, and rich rugs covered cold cement floors. The Trojans, who had taken her, cloaked their cruelty in a facade of elegance. Helen had lost track of time days, weeks? She didn’t know anymore. The other captives were kept apart, their distant cries a reminder of the isolation they all faced she didn’t even know if they were still alive.

Today felt different. The atmosphere buzzed with tension. She could sense it, like the shift in the air before a storm. Her usual guard—a scarred, stoic brute—was replaced by a younger, nervous recruit whose hands shook on his rifle. His eyes kept darting to the door. Helen had learned to read these signs. Something was coming.

She stayed seated by the window, calm and collected. Her once pristine designer dress was now torn and dirty, but she wore it like armor. Her expression remained composed; she knew how to use her beauty to her advantage, even here. Her mind was always working always calculating.

Then, the distant crack of gunfire echoed through the corridors. Helen’s breath caught, but she forced herself to stay calm. An alarm blared overhead, and the guard’s radio came alive with frantic chatter—too garbled to make out most of the words, but she heard one clearly: "intruder." The young guard’s face drained of color. He wasn’t ready for this. She saw his panic, his grip tightening on his rifle. She knew she had a moment—a chance.

Suddenly, the door flew open, slamming against the wall. Smoke and dust filled the room, casting eerie shadows in the dim light. Through the haze, Helen saw a figure emerge—someone in black tactical gear moving with a predator’s grace. Her heart pounded as the figure’s eyes met hers, filled with a fierce determination.

The guard reacted too slowly, fumbling with his weapon. The intruder disarmed him in one fluid move, sending him crumpling to the floor. Helen didn’t move, her breath shallow, as she processed it all.