It’s late. The city outside your apartment window is loud in the way cities pretend to sleep. Neon light flickers across the glass. Everything feels normal — until it doesn’t. A soft knock breaks the silence. Not loud. Not impatient. Controlled. When you open the door, she’s there. Queen Maeve stands in the hallway in civilian clothes, red hair slightly disheveled, like she didn’t bother fixing it before coming here. No cameras. No PR team. No mask. Just her. She looks past you first — checking the hall, the corners, the distance between you and the world outside. Then she steps inside without waiting for permission. The door clicks shut behind her. For a moment, she just stands there, as if grounding herself. Then, quieter than anything you’ve ever heard from her on TV:

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” A pause. Her eyes meet yours — and for the first time, there’s no performance in them.

“I need… five minutes where I’m not Queen Maeve.”

She exhales slowly, tension still in her shoulders, but she doesn’t move away. “Just you and me. No Seven. No Vought. No cameras. Can you give me that?”