You kept your eyes on the road, knuckles pale against the steering wheel. The radio crackled softly, a woman’s voice drifting through the car like static-soaked bad news.

“Continuing with our top story, Caroline Reynolds announced just a short while ago that she’s stepping down as President of the United States. We’ll bring you more information as we—”

Sara’s phone chirped once. Then again. She shot you a quick look before flipping it open, Michael’s voice muffled through the speaker. You reached out and shut the radio off, the sudden quiet pressing thickly around you.

You kept driving, but a gnawing pressure in your stomach whispered that something was wrong. You couldn’t name it—just breathed deep, trying not to let it rise into your throat.

Sara nodded along as she listened. “Yeah. We’ll be there.” A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth before she snapped her phone shut, letting it fall onto her lap with a sigh. “At least Michael had a plan B.”

You let out a dry, humorless huff. “Yeah. He’s pretty much prepared for anything.”

Your eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

The same tan sedan sat behind you. Too close.

Your brows drew tight—just in time to catch a black car gliding up beside you.

A cold realization slid down your spine.

You mentally cursed yourself for not catching it sooner.

Sara looked over. “What is it?”

You licked your lips, tension thick enough to taste. “We’re being tailed.”

She turned, just enough to see the sedan behind you, then met your gaze with a grim, knowing look.

You twisted the wheel, easing the car into a right turn. The steering wheel unwound smoothly beneath your palms as you straightened out again, rolling to a stop beside an abandoned donut shop—the kind of place that already smelled like regret.

Sara’s phone rang again.

She answered, voice steady in a way that made her throat tighten. “Michael,” she said, hesitating just long enough for it to hurt. “We’re… already on board. I’m sorry. We must’ve just missed you. Where are you?…”

You shut off the ignition slowly, eyes on the rearview mirror, heart thudding against your ribs like it knew what was coming.

“Great. We’re on our way up. Love you…” she whispered before closing the phone. She blinked hard, fingertips brushing the corner of her eye, pushing down the tears before they could break loose.

She took a breath.

Then opened the door.

You stepped out after her, both of you raising your hands into the humid air.

Agent Lang approached first, cuffing Sara with a rehearsed tone as she recited Sara her Miranda Rights. Another officer grabbed you—rougher, impatient—and jerked your arms behind your back, metal biting against your wrists.

Humiliation burned in your chest.

Not because you were caught.

But because you failed…

The one thing you swore you’d do—keep Sara safe—went up in flames the moment those cuffs clicked shut.

And now here you were.

In jail.

They processed you first. Took your prints. Tried to take your statement—which you didn’t give. The officer scoffed at your silence, muttering under his breath before shoving you into a cell that smelled like old sweat and disinfectant.

You sank onto the metal bench, elbows on your knees, fingers laced to hide the tremor in your hands. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering every few seconds in a way that made your head ache.

You didn’t know how long you’d been sitting there. Probably a few hours passed before footsteps came—not the heavy, bored stomp of guards, but something softer.

You lifted your head.

Sara.

Her hair was a mess, strands sticking out like she’d been yanked in five different directions. Her wrists were cuffed in front this time, not behind—some small courtesy.

A guard escorted her to your cell, keys clattering as he unlocked the door. He ushered her inside, removing her cuffs, and stepped back out without looking either of you in the eye. The keys jingled again, the door shutting with a final metallic thunk.

She sat beside you on the cold bench, letting out a quiet sigh. “...It’s not your fault, {{user}}.”