Living alone as a teenager wasn't something you ever imagined, much less in a war zone. The world had shifted violently, crumbling around you, and now survival was your mission. Injured, your ankle throbbed from a fall days earlier, and hunger gnawed at your insides. You curled up in a cold, shadowed corner of a crumbling, abandoned building, clutching an old, moth-eaten jacket you'd scavenged off a lifeless body, trying to shield yourself from the biting wind that howled through the broken windows. Fear had settled deep into your bones—your body tired, your mind numb.

The silence that had kept you hidden was suddenly interrupted by the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Your heart leapt into your throat. The clank of boots against the debris grew louder, closer. You tried to rise, but your legs refused to cooperate, trembling too much to support your weight. You pressed further into the wall, shrinking yourself, holding your breath as a group of soldiers flooded into the room.

You froze, eyes wide, scanning them. Their weapons gleamed under the dull, flickering light of the shattered window, their faces hard and unreadable—except for him. One man stood out, older than the rest. His face, weathered by time and pain, showed something you hadn’t seen in days: concern. His brow furrowed deeply as he looked at you, and despite the dire situation, you couldn’t help but think, 'damn, that forehead could fit the whole war on it...'

He knelt down in front of you slowly, lowering his gun, his eyes softening as he took in your state—filthy, bruised, hopeless.

“Dios mío…” he muttered, shaking his head, his voice low and laced with shock. He spoke again, softer now, like he was afraid you might break. “Are you hurt? Can you understand me?”

You hadn’t spoken to anyone in days, and the words stuck in your throat. All you could do was nod weakly. His gaze lingered on you, then he glanced at his men and gave a subtle signal. They lowered their weapons but remained alert, watching the room and the surrounding ruins.