Morning arrived with a muted gray light filtering through the thick forest canopy. The safehouse seemed almost tranquil, a deceptive calm after the chaos of the past weeks. Rowan moved silently through the operations room, scanning monitors and making notes, while Mika and Eli continued to comb through intelligence on Rambo and his network. Outside, Jax and Vera patrolled the perimeter, and Tara quietly checked medical supplies, ensuring that Roselyn's recovery was on track.
Roselyn sat on the edge of her bed, the blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders, staring at the floor. The events of the past months—kidnapping, captivity, the experiments—still clung to her like shadows. She had survived, but survival alone did not erase fear, nor did it mend the fractures left in her mind and body.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Roselyn?" Rowan's voice was calm, patient. "Time to get up."
She hesitated. Her muscles were stiff, her body still aching from weeks of confinement and escape. But there was a firmness in his tone, a quiet insistence that carried no pressure, only expectation. Slowly, she nodded, letting him guide her toward the training room.
The training room was modest but functional—padded floors, walls lined with basic weapons and equipment, and a set of mirrors that reflected her own fragile, tense form. Rowan gestured toward a mat in the center.
"Start slow," he said. "We'll focus on regaining strength, balance, and stamina first. Nothing extreme. I want you steady, not injured."
Roselyn swallowed and nodded again. Her hands were clammy, her chest tight, but she allowed herself to step onto the mat. Rowan moved beside her, not hovering, but close enough to intervene if necessary. There was a quiet intensity in his presence, a calm that seemed to anchor her against the storm of memories that threatened to resurface.
The first exercises were simple: stretching, light movements to wake the muscles, controlled breathing. Rowan watched her posture, adjusting her gently when her shoulders tensed or her back curved. Each touch was brief, professional, but carried a subtle reassurance. She noticed herself relaxing slightly, her trust in him growing—not fully, not yet, but enough to let her guard lower fractionally.
"You're doing fine," he said quietly. "Slow and steady. Strength comes before speed."
Hours passed in a rhythm of repetition. Roselyn's muscles protested, her body reminded her of its weakness, but slowly, incrementally, she felt progress. Small victories—a stance held longer, a breath controlled, a step steadier than before—offered flashes of confidence she had not felt in months.
Between sets, Rowan remained nearby, observing, occasionally offering guidance. "You're stronger than you think," he remarked during a short pause, his voice softer than usual. "You've survived situations most people couldn't even imagine. That resilience… it doesn't disappear overnight."
Roselyn swallowed, unsure whether to respond. Words felt heavy. Instead, she focused on the floor, absorbing the quiet affirmation. She wasn't just rebuilding her body—she was reclaiming control over herself. Each movement was a declaration: she was no longer powerless.
After a short break, Rowan introduced light sparring exercises. Initially, he moved slowly, allowing her to anticipate and react. She stumbled at first, unsure of timing and balance, but Rowan's calm guidance helped her find rhythm.
"Good," he encouraged after a particularly awkward attempt. "Every stumble teaches you something. Don't fear it."
For the first time since her rescue, Roselyn allowed herself to laugh softly, a brief release of tension. Rowan glanced at her, a flicker of a smile crossing his otherwise serious features.
"You're allowed to feel progress," he said. "It's not weakness. It's proof of strength."
The session ended with basic defensive techniques, teaching her how to protect herself without relying solely on others. Rowan's movements were deliberate, controlled, and precise, demonstrating the methods before letting her mimic them. Each success, each correctly executed motion, bolstered her confidence incrementally.
When the exercises were over, she collapsed onto the mat, breathing heavily but with a strange satisfaction. Rowan handed her a water bottle without a word, watching her carefully.
"You did well today," he said, his tone steady, almost comforting. "Tomorrow, we'll build on this. Strength is a process."
Roselyn nodded, feeling a quiet determination settle within her. She knew she had a long way to go—not just physically, but mentally. The fear, the memories, the trauma—they would not vanish easily. But with guidance, protection, and her own resolve, she could begin to reclaim the life that Rambo had tried to steal.
As she sipped water, her thoughts drifted briefly to the others. The team—silent, competent, ever-watchful—had become a tether to safety she had not realized she could rely on. Mika's focused intensity, Jax's dry humor, Tara's gentle care, Eli's stealthy precision, Vera's unwavering confidence—they were not just protectors; they were allies in a world that had shown her its darkest corners.
Rowan finally guided her back to her room. "Rest tonight," he instructed. "Tomorrow, we push a little further."
She nodded, her muscles still protesting, but her mind quieter than it had been in weeks. For the first time, she allowed herself to feel a glimmer of hope—small, fragile, but undeniably there.
Later that night, as she lay in bed, the faint sounds of the forest outside filtering through the blinds, Roselyn allowed herself a rare thought: I can survive this. I will fight back. And I won't be alone.
But even in the quiet of the safehouse, she knew Rambo's shadow still lingered. He had not forgotten her. He would come again. And when he did, she needed to be ready—not just to survive, but to confront him on her own terms.
And for the first time in months, she believed she could.