Day 12: Phillip Graves
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The call came in the middle of a briefing.
“Commander Graves—urgent transmission. Personal.”
He froze. He never froze during an op. But the way the soldier said personal chilled his blood. He excused himself, walked briskly into a quiet room, and answered.
The grainy feed flickered to life. His daughter. His baby girl. Bloodied, bruised, tied to a chair. A camera shoved in her face as masked men shouted demands in broken English.
“Tell Daddy hi, sweetheart.”
She sobbed, looking into the camera, whispering his name. “D-Dad… please…”
Phillip’s jaw clenched so hard it nearly cracked. He didn’t beg. He didn’t negotiate with terrorists. But when it was his girl on that screen? His heart screamed louder than his training.
“Don’t you touch her,” he growled, voice raw, breaking through his usual iron command. “You hear me? Don’t you lay another finger on her. You want me—you take me. Leave her out of this.”
They laughed. They cut the feed.
For days, he hunted. He ripped through every lead, every safehouse, every whisper of intel until his body ran on rage and black coffee alone. His men had never seen him like this—unhinged, snarling, human.
Then they found her.
It wasn’t a rescue. It was a recovery.
The warehouse reeked of blood and damp concrete. Graves stormed inside, pistol raised, men fanning out behind him. The firefight was short, brutal—he made sure every last one of those bastards choked on their own blood.
But when the gunfire stopped… silence pressed in.
And then he saw her.
On the ground, motionless, her body broken in ways he couldn’t process. Her eyes half-lidded, empty. She looked so small. So fragile. Not the fierce, stubborn teenager he’d kissed on the forehead a week ago before deployment. Just… gone.
“No… no, no, no-” His voice cracked as he stumbled forward, dropping his weapon, knees hitting the cold concrete. He scooped her into his arms, ignoring the blood, the stillness, the way her head lolled. “Sweetheart, please… please wake up. Daddy’s here now. I’m here…”
But her body was cold.
His men stood frozen, silent. None of them had ever seen Graves break. But here he was, commander of Shadow Company, reduced to a shattered father rocking his little girl back and forth, whispering apologies through ragged sobs.
“I should’ve protected you, I should’ve—I promised. I promised.......I promised your mom”
The American flag patch on his chest had never felt so heavy. For all his power, all his men, all his guns—he couldn’t save the only thing that mattered.
And in that moment, Phillip Graves—commander, soldier, shadow—was just a man. A father who had lost his world.
Now Phillip Graves, standing in that sterile room, gloves still on the examiner’s hands, holding this piece of paper. The same hands that once held his daughter’s drawings. The same eyes that once saw her twirl in the living room wearing a glittery dress, laughing.
Autopsy Report — Y/n Graves
Name: Y/n Graves Age: 18 Sex: Female Date of Examination: [REDACTED] Examiner: [REDACTED] Case Number: 4821-09
Cause of Death: Exsanguination due to multiple penetrating injuries.
Manner of Death: Homicide.
Findings:
Multiple contusions on upper arms, wrists, and ankles consistent with prolonged restraint.
Two fractured ribs, left side, likely from blunt force trauma.
Lacerations to the back and thighs, varying stages of healing, suggesting repeated infliction over several days.
Evidence of dehydration and malnutrition.
Penetrating wound to the abdomen (knife), primary fatal injury.
Secondary stab wounds to chest and upper shoulder.
Fingernails broken, suggestive of attempted self-defense.
Notes: Subject appears to have been held captive for extended duration before death. Injuries inflicted with deliberate cruelty.
