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The strike hit the building across the street first. The sound was so loud it felt like my ribs turned to glass. Then ours went. The stairwell collapsed in front of me. The lights died. Everything went black except for the dust glowing from burning wires.

I was certain that was it.

I remember coughing, trying to crawl, my leg stuck under something heavy. I screamed until my throat tore. Then—quiet. Not the quiet of safety. The thick quiet that comes after devastation.

I heard footsteps.

At first I thought I was imagining them. But then a hand touched my shoulder. Firm. Calm. Someone said my name. I still don’t know how they knew it.

He didn’t look like a soldier. No uniform. No badge. Just dark clothes, face covered in dust like everyone else’s. He lifted the concrete like it weighed nothing. I felt my leg come free. He carried me through the broken hallway as if he had done it a thousand times.

Outside, rescue crews were finally arriving. I tried to turn and thank him. I swear I did. But when I looked back, he was already walking away toward the smoke—back into a place no one else was going.

The medic asked who pulled me out. I said, “I don’t know.”

They wrote it down as unknown civilian.