Lucy Chen is in the army, mirroring Tim Bradford's experience

The road to recovery

It had been three weeks since the rescue, and the hospital room had become both a sanctuary and a prison for Lucy. The sterile white walls, the scent of antiseptic, the constant hum of medical equipment—all of it reminded her that she was safe now, that her team had pulled her out. But no matter how far away she was from that dark cell, her mind kept dragging her back there.

Each night, she would close her eyes and be transported back to the cold, concrete floor of the interrogation room. The sound of her captors' footsteps would echo in her dreams, and she would feel the bite of the leather straps on her wrists, hear the officer's voice whispering threats and promises of pain. She'd wake up in a cold sweat, heart racing, the nightmare so vivid that for a few terrifying moments, she believed she was still trapped.

Her body had started to heal—bruises fading, the fractures in her ribs mending, her weight slowly returning. But her mind was a different story.

Lucy sat in the hospital bed, her knees pulled up to her chest as she stared out the window. The bright sunlight flooded the room, casting long shadows on the walls, but she didn't feel its warmth. She felt numb, detached from everything around her. It was as if part of her had been left behind in that cell, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't reconnect with the life she'd once known.

The door to her room creaked open, and Tim stepped inside, carrying two cups of coffee. He'd been visiting her every day since she was stable enough to have visitors, his presence a steady reminder that she wasn't alone. Angela had been there too, making sure Lucy knew her team had her back, but today it was just Tim.

He handed her a cup without saying a word, then sat down in the chair next to her bed, sipping his own drink. They sat in silence for a long time, the only sound in the room the faint rustle of paper from the nurse's station just outside the door.

Lucy appreciated Tim's quiet presence. He never pushed her to talk, never asked her to relive what had happened in that place. He just sat with her, letting her know that he was there when she was ready.

But today, the weight of the silence was unbearable.

"I don't know how to go back," Lucy said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze remained fixed on the window, but her thoughts were far away. "It's like... part of me is still there. And I can't get it back."

Tim didn't respond right away, and for a moment, Lucy wondered if he had heard her. Then, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze thoughtful.

"You're not going to just go back to who you were," he said, his voice steady. "You went through hell, Lucy. And that changes people. But you're still you."

Lucy let his words sink in, though they didn't feel entirely real. She wasn't sure who she was anymore. The confident, capable soldier she had once been seemed like a distant memory. Every time she thought about returning to her unit, her stomach twisted with anxiety. How could she go back to being a soldier after everything she'd been through? After being so powerless?

"I don't feel like me," she admitted, her voice tight. "I feel... broken."

Tim's jaw clenched, and for a moment, Lucy saw something flicker in his eyes—something raw and personal. He'd been through his own trauma, she knew that. She'd been there when he'd dealt with his own demons, when he'd fought to recover from the wounds he'd carried from war zones and the streets of LA.

"You're not broken," he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You're hurt. And yeah, it's going to take time to heal. But you're still here. You're still fighting."

Lucy blinked, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over. She had fought. She had survived. But surviving didn't feel like enough anymore. It felt hollow, like she had left something essential behind.

"I don't even know if I want to be a soldier anymore," she confessed, the words spilling out before she could stop them. It was the first time she'd admitted it to herself, let alone to someone else. "How can I go back out there after everything that happened?"

Tim was silent for a long moment, his gaze thoughtful as he studied her. Then, he set his coffee cup down on the floor and leaned forward, his expression serious.

"No one's going to force you to go back if you're not ready," he said. "But don't make that decision now. You've been through a lot, Lucy. Give yourself time to figure things out."

Lucy looked away, the weight of his words settling on her shoulders. He was right—she wasn't in any shape to make decisions about her future. But the fear lingered. What if she was never ready? What if the trauma of her captivity had changed her so much that she could never be the soldier she once was?

"I don't know if I'll ever be ready," she whispered, more to herself than to Tim.

Tim's hand rested on her arm, a gesture of quiet support. "You will be," he said softly. "When you're ready, you'll know."

They fell into silence again, but this time, it felt less oppressive. Lucy sipped her coffee, the warmth of the cup seeping into her fingers, grounding her in the present moment.

Later that evening, after Tim had left, Lucy lay in her hospital bed, staring up at the ceiling. The nurses had come in to check her vitals, and the doctors had given her the all-clear to be discharged soon. She should have felt relieved. The thought of leaving the hospital, of getting back to a semblance of normal life, should have been comforting.

But it wasn't. It terrified her.

Out there, beyond the sterile walls of the hospital, was a world that had kept moving while she had been trapped in that cell. She didn't know how to fit into it anymore. The thought of facing her unit, of looking her friends and colleagues in the eye, made her chest tighten with anxiety. They'd know what had happened to her. They'd look at her differently—pity her, maybe even fear her.

Lucy swallowed hard, the familiar sting of tears returning. She had never felt this kind of fear before. She had always been brave, always faced danger head-on. But this was different. This fear was inside her, gnawing away at her confidence, making her doubt everything she had ever believed about herself.

With a shaky breath, Lucy reached for the journal the hospital therapist had given her. She hadn't written in it yet, hadn't been able to bring herself to put her thoughts on paper. But tonight, she felt an overwhelming need to let it out, to make sense of the storm of emotions swirling inside her.

She opened the journal and stared at the blank page for a long time, her pen hovering above the paper. Then, slowly, she began to write.

I don't know who I am anymore.

The words spilled out in a rush, and once she started, she couldn't stop. She wrote about the fear, the guilt, the overwhelming sense of being lost. She wrote about the nightmares, the flashbacks, the way her body still flinched at sudden noises. She wrote about the weight of the expectations she had placed on herself and the crushing realization that she might never live up to them again.

By the time she finished, her hand was trembling, her chest tight with emotion. She closed the journal and set it aside, feeling both drained and oddly lighter.

For the first time in weeks, Lucy allowed herself to cry. It wasn't the quiet, controlled tears she had shed in the hospital before. This was raw, ugly sobbing—the kind that left her gasping for breath, her whole body shaking with the intensity of it.

And when the tears finally stopped, when the sobs subsided into quiet sniffles, Lucy lay back against the pillows, exhausted but strangely at peace.

She wasn't okay. Not yet. But for the first time, she felt like she had taken a step toward something better.