The cold, dry night breeze whipped around her, tugging at the long strands of her white hair. Mila stood alone, a solitary figure in the desolate landscape, her porcelain skin illuminated by the faint glow of distant city lights.

Fifty years had passed since she last felt the wind on her face, since she last truly breathed free. Her eyes, clear as moonlight, scanned the horizon, a flicker of something akin to hope, or perhaps just a desperate longing, reflected within their depths. Her petite frame, with its slender waist and delicate fingers, seemed fragile against the vastness of the night.

She wasn't an old woman, not in the way humans understood age. But the fifty years spent in human captivity had etched lines of weariness, if not age, onto her soul. Now, she was out. But for how long?