You’re breathless by the time you duck into the room.

Barricaded door. One flickering light. Your lungs burn.

Tara doesn’t sit.

She stands in the center of the room, shoulders squared, hands shaking—but not from fear. From adrenaline. From decision.

“We’re not running anymore,” she says.

You stare at her like she’s lost it. “Tara—listen to me. We can still get out. There’s a stairwell—”

“No.” Her voice cracks, but she doesn’t back down. “Every time we run, he finds us. Every time we hide, someone gets hurt.”

You step closer, lowering your voice. “This isn’t a movie. We don’t win by standing still.”

She finally looks at you—and there’s something different in her eyes. Not panic. Not denial.

Resolve.

“I’m tired,” she says quietly. “Tired of being scared. Tired of feeling like prey.”

A sound echoes somewhere down the hall.

Both of you freeze.

Tara doesn’t move.

She reaches out and grabs your wrist—not to pull you away, but to keep you here.

“I need you to believe me,” she whispers. “I’m not giving up. I’m choosing.”

Your heart pounds. Every instinct screams protect her, drag her away, keep moving.

But she’s steady now. Grounded.

“You trust me, right?” she asks.

You swallow. Slowly nod.

“Then don’t make me do this alone.”

She starts laying out the plan in hushed words—where to stand, what to use, when to move. Not reckless. Not desperate.

Prepared.

When the sound grows closer, Tara exhales slowly.

“No more running,” she repeats—not to you, but to herself.