I was sent to capture the CIA's most wanted fugitive.
But things took a tragic turn,
My entire team was murdered before my eyes, and I was kidnapped by said fugitive.
It seemed like my government had forgotten me and I became a puppet for the fugi...
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Whoever said darkness couldn't be a friend never faced the kind that suffocates, the kind that slowly seeps into your bones, becoming your only companion in a prison built for nightmares. My nightmare-crafted meticulously by no one other than Andreas Hidalgo.
I've developed a twisted routine here, in this personal hell he's designed just for me. There's no sun, no clock to mark the days. Time is meaningless in this void, and that, more than anything, is horrifying. I don't know if anyone is looking for me-or if they've already forgotten me. And Andreas... what he plans for me, I can't even begin to guess. I know nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Every once in a while, the door groans open, breaking the oppressive silence. A woman steps in, dressed impeccably, her sleek clothes a mockery of my disheveled, blood-stained state. She says nothing-never has. She moves with cold efficiency, tending to my cuts and bruises with hands that don't care but seem well-practiced, almost mechanical. A tray follows her, bland food delivered with the same precision. She watches me eat like she's assessing me, waiting for something. I haven't figured out what yet.
Recently, tampons started showing up alongside the food. It's funny, in the worst possible way. As if bleeding out from my wounds isn't enough, my body still clings to the cycles of womanhood.
She always leaves without a word, taking the plates, the bandages, the tampons, leaving me to sit in the growing pool of my own dread. She returns when she pleases-never at a set time, never with a pattern I can cling to for comfort.
I have no sense of day or night. The seasons outside could be changing for all I know. I have no way to tell.
I know nothing. And that itself is a different kind of pain.
I do know one thing: I am nowhere near American waters. I'm far from my country, and worse-there's a good chance I've already been presumed dead. That thought claws at me in the dark hours, but not as much as the nightmares. They're always the same: dead Navy SEALs, fallen agents scattered like broken toys, and then there's Agent Wright, screaming as he's forced into a coffin, his fists pounding uselessly against the wood. I wake up shaking, gasping for air, my face wet with tears. But even in the grip of fear, I refuse to break.
I will not break.
He does not get to break me.
Andreas hasn't shown his face since the last time I had the audacity to call him afraid. My words had hit a nerve-I could see it in the way his jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists as he stalked out of here. That was days ago... weeks? Time doesn't exist here, but the memory of that moment lingers like a small victory.
Maybe that's why he hasn't returned. Maybe I bruised his ego, cracked the mask he wears so well. Or maybe he's simply biding his time, letting me stew in this silence, waiting for the moment when I might beg for him to come back.
I wonder how my mom must be doing. If the agency's told her yet. She must be devastated-probably flew back to New York, stormed into my field office, demanding answers. I can picture her pacing, voice cracking as she begs for something, anything. And every night, she's probably praying for the safe return of her daughter, her hands clutching the rosary tighter as each day passes without news.
