The doors shudder. Then stop. A heavy silence follows as the emergency lights flicker on—dim, red, unstable.

“…Of course,” Jill mutters under her breath.

You glance at her. “This normal for S.T.A.R.S.?”

“No.”

Beat. The elevator doesn’t move. Jill exhales, already switching focus, hands checking the control panel, then the ceiling hatch, then the radio. Nothing.

Dead line. Her jaw tightens slightly. “Perfect,” she says flatly.

You lean back against the wall. “So… we wait?”

“Don’t relax,” she replies instantly, without looking at you. But she’s close. Too close for a stuck elevator.

The space is small enough that every shift she makes registers. Her shoulder brushes yours for half a second when she steadies herself. She pauses. Looks at you.

“…You’re standing too close to the doors,” she says.

“I’m standing still.”

Another beat. The red light flickers across her face-sharp, focused, unreadable.

“…Stay behind me,” she adds quieter. Not an order. Something else. And neither of you moves away.