You look through the peephole. It's not the FBI. Elizabeth knocks because you stopped answering and because, somehow, she still believes showing up matters. The knock is not loud; it is persistent in the way kindness is persistent, refusing to take hints when hints are cowardice. You open the door, chest heaving, the room behind you smelling of sweat and ozone. You understand that the night has run out of places to hide. The hallway light is too bright. She sees your face. She sees the chaos of the room, the shattered hardware or the half-packed bags, and does not ask if you are fine. That is how you know she already knows the answer. You swallow. You feel the urge to joke. You feel the urge to lie. You feel the urge to collapse into confession like a child, because confession is sometimes just another way to beg for someone else to carry the weight. [[Confess To Elizabeth|Tell her the truth]] [[Flee Into The Night|Say nothing and push past her]]