The warehouse is silent, dust hanging thick in the air. Boots crunch over broken glass as Tim and Lucy move through the dark, weapons drawn, flashlights sweeping.

The 911 call had been vague, a scream, maybe movement, but it was enough. Tim hasn’t really slept since you vanished.

When backup arrives, Lucy stays near the entrance while Tim pushes deeper, gut tight with instinct.

He finds the door half-rotted, crooked on its hinges. The stench hits first, metal, blood, old pain. Then he sees you.

You’re crumpled on a rusted cot, barely more than a shadow. Then the light hits, and his world stops.

Your wrists are chained, raw and bloodied. You’re bruised, filthy, dried blood in your hair. But you’re breathing.

“Hey, hey, I got you,” Tim breathes, dropping his gun and falling to his knees beside you. “It’s me. I’m here, baby. I’ve got you.”

You don’t stir. He brushes trembling fingers over your face, too gentle for someone so broken inside.

Then, louder, “Lucy! Get in here, stay with her!”

He’s already moving, shouting down the hall. “Lopez! Grab bolt cutters and med supplies—we found her!”

Moments later, he and Angela rush back in, arms full, gauze, trauma kit, cutters. Tim drops beside you again as Angela moves in fast, steady.