It starts with a feeling Elizabeth can’t shake.

Not fear exactly—more like the sense of being watched long after the cameras are gone. Notes left where they shouldn’t be. Someone knowing schedules that were never public. You’re the first person she tells.

“I think someone’s following me,” she says one night, voice low, trying to sound calm.

You believe her instantly.

You start changing routes together. Leaving events separately. Double-checking locks. For a while, it feels like enough.

It isn’t.

The night everything breaks, you’re with her—thankfully. A quiet street. A moment of distraction. Then confusion, voices too close, the world tipping sideways. When things settle, you’re both somewhere unfamiliar, the air cold and still.

Elizabeth’s hand finds yours in the dark.

“You’re here,” she whispers, shaky but relieved.

“I’ve got you,” you say. And you mean it.

You don’t panic. Not outwardly. You focus on details—the room, the sounds beyond it, the timing of footsteps. Whoever brought you there wants control, not chaos. That gives you time.

Elizabeth breathes slowly beside you, grounding herself the way she always does before a scene. “We’re getting out,” she says quietly, like a promise.