Rowan lay on the medical bed, breathing steady but labored. The wound in his side had been stabilized, though bruises and scrapes ran across his ribs and arms. He ignored the dull ache, focusing instead on the subtle movements around him—Roselyn, sitting nearby, clutching a blanket around her shoulders, her gift quietly humming beneath her skin.
She couldn't stop staring at the monitors, the armed personnel, the concealed cameras, and the high-tech equipment surrounding them. She knew instinctively that this wasn't just any safe house—it was a fortress.
"Who are they?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Rowan looked at her, his hand brushing hers gently. "I don't know yet. But they saved us. And that counts for something."
Her eyes flickered toward a pair of figures entering the room. At first, she thought she was imagining it—until the taller man stepped forward, familiar in posture, presence, and aura.
Her body froze.
The man's eyes—dark, sharp, yet softer than she remembered from stories she had never wanted to hear—met hers.
"Roselyn," the man said, his voice low but resonant.
Her throat tightened. She recognized it. She couldn't move.
And then another figure appeared behind him—older, taller, radiating the same unmistakable authority that had always commanded respect in her family.
"Roselyn…" The older man's voice trembled, breaking slightly, revealing a vulnerability she had never seen in her grandfather's public image.
She dropped the blanket, tears streaming down her face.
"Father… Grandpa…" she whispered, voice barely audible, trembling with emotion. "I… I thought I—"
The taller man stepped forward—Julian Young, her father. His eyes glistened, a mix of relief and heartbreak. "Roselyn… my daughter… you're alive."
Lucian Young, her grandfather, moved slowly, placing his hand on Julian's shoulder. "We thought we'd lost you, Roselyn. I—I failed to protect you."
She ran to them, sobbing, burying her face in her father's chest first, then pressing herself to her grandfather. Two men she had only known as legends, as figures in stories of power and authority, were now the pillars holding her up in the storm.
"I've missed you," she cried. "I've been alone… so alone…"
Julian hugged her tightly. "I will never let that happen again."
Lucian's hand rested on her back, firm and reassuring. "You're home, Roselyn. You're finally home."
Rowan watched silently from the medical bed, a complex mix of relief, awe, and restrained emotion swelling within him. His eyes never left her face—the same face he had protected once, the same face that had haunted his dreams, and now the face that was finally surrounded by the love she deserved.
Roselyn lifted her tear-streaked face toward him. Their eyes met.
"Thank you," she whispered. Not for the reunion—but for staying, for fighting, for never letting go.
Rowan nodded, letting the words remain unspoken. His presence was enough.
Outside the medical bay, the mystery group's full identity became clear. The elite team protecting them was not just a random faction—they were Julian Young's special task force, integrated with Lucian Young's retired military connections. The very people who could counter Rambo's moves before they even occurred.
For the first time in years, Roselyn felt safe. Not completely—but the walls around her, built from fear, trauma, and loss, had started to crumble.
She sat between her father and grandfather, crying softly, the weight of isolation and danger melting into relief.
Rowan stayed at the edge of the bed, silently watching. For the first time, he allowed himself a small, rare smile. The storm wasn't over. Rambo was still out there. But for now… Roselyn was surrounded by family. And he was there too.
For the first time, the future seemed like something she could face—not as Lianna Chen, the survivor, the experiment—but as Roselyn Young, daughter, granddaughter, fighter, and survivor.
And Rowan made a silent promise—no one would take her from them again.