She was a mission, now she's my everything.
Elias
It was a humid, cloudy day.
The sky was grey, like a storm was coming.
We were executing a hostage rescue and taking down the mob's stash point.
I'd done these tasks so many times that my heart rate didn't even go up a bit.
The stench of blood and damp cement hit me the moment I kicked the door open.
She was there—curled up in the corner, chained.
Her arms were bruised, her face pale like winter ash.
God, she's just a kid. How old is she? Maybe ten? Those monsters.
A strange kind of rage flooded me.
I wanted to take it out on the suspect beside me—to beat him to death.
But years of training had taught me better: secure the hostage first.
Her eyes met mine.
She was so scared that she reminded me of a deer caught in headlights—only worse.
I cleared the room in seconds.
One suspect down. The rest had already fled. My team was in pursuit.
It didn't matter.
I wasn't here for them.
I was here for her.
"You're safe now," I said, lowering my weapon.
She flinched at the sound of my voice.
Her shoulders twitched like she didn't know how to react.
I crouched down, showed her my ID, and kept my tone calm—maybe even soft.
"Can you walk?"
I held out my hand.
After a moment—it felt like a century—she placed her tiny, trembling hand in mine.
She was trying to decide whether I was just another man who'd hurt her.
I could tell.
And I hated those scumbags even more.
She blinked. Slowly. Then nodded.
Her legs gave out the second she tried to stand.
I caught her before she hit the ground.
How can a person be so light?
She's like a feather, I thought as I held her in my arms.
At that time, I didn't know I was carrying my world.
She didn't make a sound, but her tears fell like a waterfall.
It burned.
Just a little.
I didn't know why.
She didn't speak.
She just leaned into me like she'd been waiting for this moment for years.
She clutched my shirt so hard, like it was the last thing anchoring her to this world.
I remember walking out of that warehouse, holding her in my arms.
Her body was trembling, head resting on my chest, eyes wide open but unfocused.
Those tears just kept coming, but she didn't seem to realize she was crying.
Like she wasn't really there—it wasn't her who was crying.
She looked at me as if she couldn't believe she was finally saved.
The sirens were blaring.
Officers shouting.
Gunpowder still lingered in the air.
Her eyes were hollow, as if she couldn't hear any of the noise. Even those noises were loud enough to break eardrums.
She looked like a porcelain doll without a soul.
I wasn't supposed to care.
We shouldn't get attached to the victims.
But that look… it stung.
Not that I realized it at the time.
I was supposed to file a report, hand her over to social services, and move on to my next mission.
But I didn't.
I tried, actually.
But she wouldn't let anyone else near her.
She wouldn't talk. Wouldn't eat.
She barely spoke to me.
We all knew she needed more than just a rescue.
She needed someone to pull her out of hell.
I wasn't the best person for the job.
But I was the only option at the time.
So I took her in.
It wasn't protocol.
I'd never been soft.
But somehow, I just couldn't look away this time.
I just didn't know…that saving her would eventually destroy me.