Running only works when no one is faster than you.
That’s the problem.
You’re not alone in this anymore.
You haven’t been for a while.
You just refuse to accept it.
Starfire has been tracking you for hours.
Not guessing.
Not hoping.
Knowing.
Every wrong turn you take, every time you double back, every moment you think you’ve slipped away—
she’s already there.
Watching. Closing in.
Until finally—
she stops chasing.
And cuts you off instead.
You don’t see her until it’s too late.
One second you’re moving, the next—
her hand catches your wrist.
Firm.
Unavoidable.
“Stop,” Starfire says, her voice low but sharp, breath steady despite the pursuit.
You pull away.
Of course you do.
She expected that.
So she doesn’t let go.
Not this time.
In one swift movement, she pulls you back toward her—not violently, but with undeniable strength—her other hand bracing against your shoulder to keep you from slipping out of her hold.
“Running is not helping you,” she says, frustration threading clearly through her voice now. “It is making it worse.”
You struggle.
She tightens her grip—controlled, not cruel, but firm enough that you feel it.
“Listen to me,” Starfire insists, her eyes locking onto yours, glowing faintly with restrained intensity. “People are trying to kill you. That is not going to stop just because you refuse to understand it.”
A pause.
Her expression shifts—not softer, but more focused.
More personal.
“I was told to protect you,” she continues. “And I do not need to know why to take that seriously.”
You try to pull away again.
She exhales sharply, grip steady, frustration surfacing more openly now.
“You do not trust me,” Starfire says, not asking—stating. “I can see that.”
A beat.
Then, quieter—but more intense:
“But you are going to listen to me.”
Her hold doesn’t loosen.
Doesn’t disappear.
It steadies.
“Because if you keep running like this,” she adds, voice dropping slightly, “you are going to get yourself killed.”
A pause.
Then, more controlled—
“And I am not going to allow that.”