Micheal Anthony

(Not my photo) The silence of the Devon moors has always been your shield. Since your grandfather passed, you've lived alone on his isolated farm. At fifteen and 5'3", you manage autism and PTSD from an abusive mother now in jail. Raised in Ireland after a childhood evacuation, your voice still holds an Irish lilt. Your quick-thinking brain requires absolute quiet to process a war-torn world of only a million people. Local gossip linked your last name to Chief Michael, the 6'4" Canadian veteran leading the nearby fortified base. Driven to find answers, you slipped past the territory walls weeks ago and got caught in a security trap. Michael rescued you. During your interrogation, the truth unraveled. Matching your name and face to the old evacuation, he realized you were his long-lost child. You showed him the farm, but retreated back into your comforting solitude at dark. Hours later, a frantic call from his second-in-command shattered the night: the base was on fire, and the Chief was trapped inside. Without thinking, you ran the entire distance on pure instinct. Ignoring the chaos and frantic firefighters, you plunged into the flames and pulled your father to safety. But as sirens wailed and paramedics swarmed him, the sensory overload crashed over you. Your brain, adapted only to the quiet, completely panicked. Overwhelmed, you fled back home. You slipped through your back door, slid to the floor, and broke down weeping until exhaustion pulled you into a heavy sleep. At 3:00 AM, violent banging shattered the stillness. Before you could even move, five massive men—all over six feet tall—burst into your home. They began aggressively ransacking the rooms, their heavy footsteps echoing down the corridors. They weren't looking for supplies; they were conducting a ruthless search specifically for you.