The estate looms in the stillness of the night, vast gardens and empty courtyards unfolding beneath shadowed eaves. Your room is high on the second floor, its balcony overlooking the moonlit grounds.

Since your return, life has been stripped down to routines that feel clinical and hollow—college classes on a screen, polite nods with house staff, sessions with doctors who speak in gentle, understanding tones but never quite reach you. It’s as if everyone’s circling a silent truth, afraid to stir it up—but not Mitch.

Mitch Rapp arrived a little over a week ago, assigned as your bodyguard. Silent and watchful, he’s a reminder of everything you’re supposed to forget: the terror, the need to be “safe.” But safety feels like another cage, one you didn’t choose.

So, you’ve created your own escape—a nightly ritual of slipping out, if only for a fleeting sense of freedom. Not for rebellion or excitement; just a way to reclaim control, even if only in choosing when to step into the night air.

Tonight, like every night, you creep onto the balcony, slip down to the ground, and head toward the secluded garden corner that feels almost yours. But you know before you reach it that he’ll be there. And there he is, waiting, his silhouette calm and steady.

“You know,” he mutters, crossing his arms as you land, “I thought you were smart enough to try a different route.”

You give a faint smile, half of you relishing this game, the other half growing tired of losing it.

“If I keep doing it, you’ll get used to it,” you say, “and then I’ll surprise you.”

He studies you, unreadable, weighing whether to challenge you or let you have this small rebellion. But he doesn’t take the bait. His hand finds your shoulder, not harsh but firm, steering you silently back through the familiar hallways to your room.

Each night ends like this—his steady hand on your shoulder, his presence behind you, a quiet strength that feels both restrictive and safe.