Chapter 0: The Warehouse
She was a mission. Now she’s my everything. –Elias
Elias
The sky was grey. Thick, unmoving.
The kind of grey that made the world feel like it had stopped breathing.
We were mid-operation, a hostage rescue, the mob’s stash point.
Just another job. Just another door.
My heart didn’t even flinch.
Then the smell hit.
Blood. Sweat. Wet concrete.
I kicked in the door and saw her.
She was curled up in the far corner, chained to a rusted pipe.
Barefoot. Bruised.
Her face the color of ash, arms wrapped around her knees like they were all she had.
God. She’s just a kid.
Ten? Maybe?
What the hell had they done to her?
Something inside me cracked.
I almost lost it right there.
My fists clenched. My jaw locked.
But training kicked in.
Secure the hostage. Don’t lose your head.
She looked up.
Eyes wide. Frozen.
Like she couldn’t tell if I was another nightmare or the end of one.
I cleared the room. One suspect down. The others had already fled.
My team was chasing shadows.
Didn’t matter.
I wasn’t here for them.
I was here for her.
“You’re safe now,” I said.
Lowered my weapon.
She flinched.
Shoulders jerked like she didn’t know how to move.
I crouched, showed her my badge.
“Can you walk?”
Kept my voice low. Gentle.
I held out my hand.
For a second—longer than a second—she didn’t move.
Then her fingers brushed mine.
Tiny. Ice cold.
Trembling like she was choosing whether to trust me.
She placed her hand in mine.
And I knew—
She didn’t trust me yet.
But she was too tired not to try.
She stood. Or tried to.
Her knees buckled.
I caught her.
She weighed nothing.
Bone, skin, silence.
I held her.
Didn’t know I was holding everything.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t sob.
But her tears soaked through my shirt like they’d been waiting there.
It burned.
Just a little.
I didn’t know why.
She leaned in.
Gripped my collar like she’d drown without it.
Like she didn’t know if she’d vanish if I let go.
I remember walking out, still holding her.
Sirens screaming. Radios buzzing.
Gunpowder in the air.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
Her head was on my chest, eyes open but empty.
She didn’t seem to know she was crying.
Like her body was grieving before her mind could catch up.
She looked at me like she wasn’t sure I was real.
Like rescue was a story she’d stopped believing in.
I wasn’t supposed to care.
We’re not supposed to get attached.
But that look…
It stayed.
I was supposed to write a report.
Hand her off.
Move on.
But she wouldn’t let go.
Wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t eat.
Barely even looked at me.
Still.
She clung to me like I was the only solid thing left.
We knew she needed more than rescue.
She needed someone to fight her way out with her.
I wasn’t qualified.
But no one else came.
So I stayed.
It wasn’t protocol.
I’d never broken it before.
But this time…
I couldn’t look away.
I didn’t know—
Saving her would eventually destroy me.
Chapter 1: The First Night
I thought he was a man. Turned out he was my light. –Liana
Liana
I woke up screaming.
But I didn’t know I was screaming until the man who looked like a bear stormed into the room.
I was choking in my dream… or should I say memory?
I could still feel his palms squeezing every inch of air out of my lungs. Just for fun.
The room was dark and quiet.
No chains. No cold concrete floor.
I tried moving—and I could. But in my dream, I was still there. Still gagged.
Still waiting for the next pair of footsteps that meant pain.
I couldn’t breathe. My chest was tight, my body soaked in sweat.
I gripped the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing keeping me from falling back into that nightmare.
Then the door burst open.
He stood there.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Eyes wide, alert. He didn’t even bother turning on the light.
He scanned the room for threats first, like a soldier.
Then he looked at me.
“It’s okay. You’re safe. It was just a dream,” he said, voice low but steady.
The way he spoke—like how you’d talk to a baby. Soft. Careful. Or at least, he tried to be.
I could tell.
He didn’t move closer.
He didn’t shout.
He didn’t reach for me.
He kept a safe distance—for me.
Just stood in the doorway, like a wall, breathing like he’d run up a flight of stairs.
Watching me.
I didn’t say anything. I just nodded slowly.
He waited a few more seconds, then said, “If you need anything, I’m right outside.”
And then he left.
The next morning, I opened my eyes to sunlight streaming through the window.
I woke up to silence.
No chains.
No shouting.
No footsteps coming.
The air smelled clean.
Too clean.
I didn’t trust it.
My eyes darted around the room.
The ceiling was white. The walls, too. There were no cracks. No stains. No shadows hiding in corners.
Where am I?
And then it hit me.
I wasn’t there anymore.
I was in his home.
The man who saved me.
Elias.
I sat up slowly.
My body still ached. Every movement pulled at something—bruises, muscle, memory.
I waited for the door to slam open.
It didn’t.
After what felt like forever, I stepped outside.
The hallway was bright, the wooden floor warm under my feet.
Every sound made me flinch—the hum of the fridge, the tick of the clock, the soft scrape of metal against ceramic.
He was in the kitchen.
He looked… different in daylight. Less like a guardian angel.
More like a military-grade bear.
His back muscles shifted under a tight black T-shirt as he bent to get something from the fridge.
He looked like he could crush someone with one hand.
He could snap my neck, I thought for a second.
He’s scary. Should I run?
He didn’t look at me right away.
He was pouring something into a mug.
His movements were steady. Quiet. Controlled.
I didn’t move.
He turned, slowly, as if he’d been waiting.
“Morning,” he said, voice low and calm.
But that still scared me.
I didn’t answer.
I was still thinking about running.
Even though I had nowhere to go.
And I was pretty sure I couldn’t outrun him anyway.
He nodded toward the small table.
“There’s breakfast, if you want.”
I looked.
A plate with a slice of bread.
A boiled egg.
A cup of warm milk.
Nothing else.
No hands forcing it down my throat.
No eyes watching me chew.
I stayed at the edge of the room.
He didn’t come closer.
He didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t say “sit” or “eat” or “hurry up.”
He just pulled out a chair and sat down—across the room, facing slightly away.
Like he was giving me a way out if I needed one.
“I’ll just sit here,” he said, as if we were talking about the weather.
“You can do whatever you want.”
I didn’t move.
Five minutes passed.
Maybe more.
My stomach twisted.
I wasn’t sure if it was hunger or fear.
Eventually, I took one step forward.
Okay. He didn’t yell.
Then another.
Okay. He didn’t try to grab me.
Then another.
I sat.
The chair was soft. The table didn’t creak.
I stared at the bread.
He didn’t say anything.
I picked it up with both hands.
It shook. So did I.
I brought it close to my mouth.
Paused.
Still watching him.
He wasn’t looking.
He was sipping from his mug, scrolling through something on his phone.
I took a bite.
Small.
Dry.
But mine.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t even look at me.
Just kept sipping.
Chapter 2: The First Breakfast
It was my job to fix her- or was it? –Elias
Elias
She didn’t make a sound when she stepped out of the room.
She tried not to. I could tell.
But I knew. I was trained too well.
She didn’t know that I knew. So I kept it that way.
Even before I saw her—barefoot, small, shoulders locked like she expected someone to grab her from behind—I felt the shift in the air.
God, she looked even worse in daylight.
Now I could see everything clearly.
Her face was pale as paper, lips almost colorless, her whole body looked like it might fall apart at any second.
She was tiny. My shirt looked like a dress on her.
And that sliver of arm sticking out—veins visible under skin so thin it looked like I could snap her in half with one finger.
She was watching.
Waiting.
Scanning for danger like the world had teeth.
I didn’t look up right away.
Kept my movements slow. Predictable.
Poured the milk. Set the bread down without a clatter. Peeled the egg quietly.
Simple. Gentle. Human.
Then I turned.
She was standing in the hallway, half-hidden behind the wall, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to be real.
“Morning,” I said, low and even.
No response.
I nodded toward the table.
“There’s breakfast, if you want.”
Still nothing.
I didn’t push.
I remembered what the doctor said:
You have to be calm always. Always announce yourself when you enter the room. Don’t push her, not in any way. Don’t touch her without consent. Keep your distance…
I pulled out a chair.
Sat down.
Turned my body just enough to give her space.
“I’ll just sit here,” I said.
“You can do whatever you want.”
And then I did.
Sat. Waited.
I sipped my coffee.
Let the quiet stretch.
She didn’t move.
Her eyes kept darting. To the door. To the plate. To me.
I saw it all.
The flinch every time the fridge hummed.
The way she pressed her hands into her sides like she was trying to hold herself together.
The breath she held every time I so much as shifted in my seat.
But I stayed still.
I gave her time.
Eventually, she moved.
Tiny steps. Careful.
Like each one might trigger something.
She sat.
Didn’t touch the food.
I kept my eyes on the mug in my hands.
She picked up the bread.
Held it like it might disappear.
Hands shaking.
I didn’t look.
Not until she took the first bite.
It was small. Barely a tear in the crust.
But she did it.
She chose it.
And in that moment, I felt something in my chest unclench.
I didn’t smile.
Didn’t breathe a word.
But I was relieved.
Just a little.
She was still in there.
And I would wait.
As long as it took.
Chapter 3: The First Sentence
When she spoke…something inside me shifted.—Elias
For the first month, their conversations had been silent.
Not in the literal sense. Elias spoke. Just not often. And never with expectations.
He announced himself when entering a room.
He made breakfast every morning.
He set the food down, sat across the table, and never watched her eat.
Liana didn’t respond, of course.
She nodded.
Shook her head.
Sometimes blinked twice when she didn’t know how else to say “yes.”
Elias never forced anything.
Not food.
Not questions.
Not even eye contact.
Once a week, he took her to a therapist.
He would wait outside the door, arms crossed, back straight, listening to everything and nothing at once.
The psychologist said she was responsive, not resistant.
That was progress.
“She’s quiet, but she’s not completely shut down. She’s still trying to cope with what happened. PTSD is expected. Just give it time,” the therapist said. “You’re doing well.”
Elias didn’t say much to that either.
Just nodded. One slow, heavy nod.
A month passed.
They found a rhythm, two people living in parallel.
Mornings were consistent: toast, a boiled egg, warm milk.
Elias didn’t seem like a breakfast person, but he always drank coffee while she ate.
Liana had never spoken at the table.
Not once.
Until today.
She sat across from him, same as usual.
Her eyes on the plate, same as usual.
Elias was mid-sip from his mug when it happened.
“I can’t drink that,” she said.
It was quiet. Small.
Like her voice had been stored away and forgotten how to echo.
So soft it could’ve been missed if the room hadn’t been so still.
Elias froze.
His hand stopped in mid-air, mug halfway to his mouth.
His eyes shifted to her.
Then to the milk.
Then back to her.
He blinked. Once. Slowly.
Like he was trying to reboot his brain.
“…What?”
She lowered her gaze. “I’m lactose intolerant.”
Another blink.
Then his mouth opened, like he was about to say something wise, calm, adult.
What came out was a mess of vowels.
“You—ah. Shit.”
He didn’t usually curse in front of her.
He reminded himself to watch his language around kids.
She glanced up.
He was staring at the mug like it had personally betrayed him.
Then back at her.
Then back at the milk.
And then he cleared his throat and said, as seriously as a trained SWAT officer could manage:
“Well. That explains some things.”
Her lips twitched.
Almost a smile.
Elias stood up and walked to the sink.
Poured the milk out without a word.
He didn’t look at her as he rinsed the cup.
Didn’t comment on the fact that it had taken her a full month to speak.
Didn’t tease.
Didn’t blame.
But if you looked close enough, you could see his ears were a little red.
The next morning, there was soy milk on the table.
He didn’t say much about it.
He just set it down like always, poured her a cup, and sipped his coffee.
“I heard this is Chinese milk,” he said casually.
Liana stared at the cup.
Then at him.
It is, she thought.
The table went quiet again.
But he didn’t mind.
He nodded like that explained the universe.
She didn’t ask how he got it.
She hadn’t told him anything about herself.
Not her nationality, not her family, not even her full name.
She didn’t know Americans drank soy milk too.
Apparently, this one did. Or at least, he bought it.
Elias had done so much.
More than he had to.
More than he should have.
And not because he was soft.
He wasn’t.
It was because he was good. Too good.
And she—
She was his responsibility.
That was all.
Right?
Chapter 4: New Shoes
These walls were my whole world. —Liana
The second month
Breakfast was quiet, as always.
But not cold.
The kind of quiet that felt like a familiar blanket, not heavy, just there.
Liana sat across from Elias, pushing a boiled egg around her plate.
She poked at the yolk with the tip of her spoon.
Didn’t eat it.
Elias watched for a moment, then said casually, “Not a fan?”
She shook her head.
Then hesitated.
“I don’t like egg yolks,” she said.
It was her second full sentence since she’d arrived.
Elias blinked.
Then smiled. soft and amused, like he’d just found out she hated pineapple on pizza.
“Noted.”
She thought that was it.
But then he took another bite of toast and said, like it was the most natural thing in the world:
“You know, if you’re talking again… maybe we try something new today.”
Liana looked up, cautious.
Waiting for the rest.
He sipped his coffee.
Calm. Casual.
“Like going out. Just for a bit.”
Her fingers clenched slightly on the spoon.
No.
No, no, no.
“I don’t need to go anywhere,” she said quickly.
“Everyone needs shoes,” Elias replied.
“I have shoes.”
“You have one pair of shoes that don’t fit.”
He pointed to the corner of the room, where a battered pair of sneakers sat like exiled furniture.
“They hurt your feet every time you wear them. Don’t they?”
She stared at him.
How did he know that?
She’d never said it.
Never winced out loud.
But of course he’d noticed.
He noticed everything.
Still, the thought of going outside made her stomach twist.
She didn’t need shoes.
She didn’t need anything.
She just wanted to stay here.
In this space.
With walls she could count on.
Elias didn’t press.
“We’ll just go to the closest mall,” he said.
“In and out. Buy a pair and come back. Or,” he added gently, “if you change your mind, we come back. No pressure.”
There was a long silence.
She didn’t nod right away.
Didn’t move.
But her eyes flicked to the window.
Then back to him.
And after what felt like forever, she nodded.
They drove.
The truck was quiet.
Not tense, but… contained.
Elias kept the music off.
Liana sat stiffly, hands folded in her lap, eyes locked on the dashboard.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t fidget.
Didn’t cry.
But her breathing was shallow.
And the second they pulled into the underground lot, she stopped blinking.
Elias parked.
Cut the engine.
Turned to her, waiting.
She didn’t look at him.
Just unbuckled her seatbelt and got out.
So far, so good.
But the second they reached the surface level, she stopped.
The noise hit her like a wall.
Cars honking.
People laughing.
A door slamming somewhere nearby.
Every sound felt too loud.
Every movement too fast.
She shrank back without meaning to.
Elias noticed.
Didn’t speak.
Just shifted his position, stepping slightly in front of her as they walked, like a silent shield.
She followed closely.
Then someone brushed past them.
Not hard. Just close.
And before she even realized it, her hand had reached out.
Fingers curled tight into Elias’s shirt.
She held on.
He looked down but didn’t say a word.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t make her let go.
He just adjusted his pace.
They reached the shoe store in five minutes that felt like fifty.
She stayed behind him the whole time, barely visible.
He talked to the clerk.
Tried three sizes.
Kept her close, blocking her from view when anyone walked past.
No one touched her.
No one even came near.
But by the time they sat down for her to try the last pair, her shirt stuck to her back with sweat.
Her hands trembled slightly as she laced up the shoes.
She didn’t cry.
Didn’t complain.
But her eyes were red.
Elias knelt in front of her, checking the fit.
His fingers brushed her ankle.
She didn’t flinch.
That was something.
He looked up.
She didn’t meet his gaze.
She swallowed.
Then whispered, voice barely audible “…Can we go home now?”
It wasn’t a plea.
Wasn’t a demand.
Just a small, tired request from someone who had spent all her energy trying to stay whole.
And that was all it took.
Elias stood.
“We’re done.”
He paid without another word.
They walked back the same way.
Her hand found his shirt again.
She didn’t let go until they reached the truck.
And even then, she hesitated.
Elias didn’t say anything.
He opened the door.
Waited.
When they got home, she didn’t eat lunch.
She went straight to her room and curled up on the bed.
Not crying.
Not shaking.
Just… still.
And when Elias passed by her door, he didn’t knock.
He just left some food on the table.
With a post-it:
You did well. I’m proud of you.
