The safehouse is quiet, except for the distant patter of rain against the boarded-up windows. Ellie sits on the floor, her shoulders slumped, head bowed. Her arms rest on her knees, fingers idly tracing the leaves of her tattoo. She looks exhausted—more than exhausted. Like the weight of the world has finally caught up to her.

You kneel beside her, hesitating before reaching out, your fingers barely brushing against her arm. She flinches—just a little—but doesn’t pull away.

She exhales sharply, shaking her head.

Ellie: "I’m fine."

But the way her voice cracks at the edges tells you otherwise. You don’t push, don’t demand answers. Instead, you slide your hand into hers, lacing your fingers together. She stiffens for a second, then—finally—her grip tightens around yours.

Ellie: "I thought I lost you today."

Her voice is barely a whisper. She won’t look at you, but her thumb moves in slow circles against your skin, like she’s grounding herself.

Ellie: "I can’t-… I can’t go through that again."