For as often as she had come face to face with her own mortality, Liz had never thought for a moment about how she might really die. She had never felt it with any grave intensity. But she was quite sure now. The fluorescent lights above her flickered and hummed to life, sequentially escorting her toward the box like fate revealing itself. A ridiculous, macabre unveiling. The sirens wailed and reverberated off the concrete menacingly, jarring her already fragile nerves. But still, she remained stone-faced. She would not give them anything more.

She told Ressler she'd never make it to her hearing alive, eliciting from him barely a flinch. For six weeks she had been both protector and protected in a relationship where the safety of the other was of singular and utmost importance. They had been pulled into each other's orbit, moving symbiotically, their lives completely dependent on the other. If she had told Red she was scared for her life, he would have comforted her in his low hypnotic voice, convincing her that everything would be OK. She was confident that if the roles were reversed, she would do the same for him. She wanted nothing more than to have another chance to do so. The enveloping feeling of mutual protection stood in sharp contrast to the vision of Ressler she now had burned into her brain, his gun pointed shakily but intent on her face as she lay flat on her back on the woodsy ground. She was cold, and shaking scared.

"You wouldn't."

"I would. I know I would."

"Get your hands off of me," she said, her blonde hair hanging slack beside her face, upturned in defiance. Her voice surprised her, so low and menacing. He flinched from her as she jerked her shoulder away, the metal of her handcuffs clanking. At least he'd done her the courtesy of letting her keep her hands in front.

She remembered in the most disconnected way how sure she had been when she took this walk the first time that her life was on a comfortable path, one fated for her somehow by a benevolent force. The memory seemed to belong to someone else, as if it had all been a dream. She had wanted to be a good cop and she had been one, with a formidable reputation like a strong wind at her back. But she was no Ressler; she was smart enough to know, even then, that justice was not always black and white, and she trusted her instincts to guide her. And the result of those instincts was now guiding her into captivity. A treatment reserved for men like the Raymond Reddington she met on her first day. A criminal of rare enough caliber to be locked away in his own technologically advanced cell.

Her mouth twisted into a grimace at the thought of the symmetry. It had seemed so ridiculous to her when Red had bemoaned her becoming like him; of course it was never going to come to that. Except that in very real and tangible terms, it had. With every step toward the box she felt like she might as well have been striding across his heart, so loathe was he at the idea of her absorbing his darkness. She stepped inside the box and turned around to face Ressler, unwilling to let him do this in any manner of detachment. He removed her handcuffs, his hands equally cold on her wrists.

"I'll keep you safe, Liz," he said, his voice determined as he looked her in the eye, ever the idealistic boy scout.

"You can't," she said in a strangled whisper. Angry, fearful tears were welling in her eyes. "My safety and you doing your job are two different things now. How do you not see that?" she scoffed. It wasn't a question. It was an indictment.

"We'll clear your name, Liz. But we'll do it by the book." She took a gasp of air, the last of her freedom she was sure of it, as the door closed tight with a thud.

"Donald, from the looks of your book I'm starting to wonder if you're illiterate," a booming voice echoed off the walls and soothed her raw nerves before she even saw the source. Her mouth formed the shape of his name – Red.

Ressler turned to see him striding through the doorway. He tipped off his hat, and made his way directly into Ressler's personal space, sparing not the slightest glance toward the box.

"Donald, I suggest this knowing full well that you are not in possession of the wit or forethought to see its merit… but what the hell, let's give it a shot," he said with his usual swaggered composure. "If you want to ensure Agent Keen's safety, the only way to do that is to release her into my custody until a few days' worth of protocols are put in motion by myself and my people. Provisions will be made straight away; all you need to do is let her out of that box and she will be safe and guaranteed a fair hearing. One where she will not leave in a body bag. Anyone working in an official capacity is haplessly on their way to that very outcome, yourself included." His lips turned down while he spoke – the thought of it clearly shaking his composure.

"Not a chance, Reddington. Letting her run off with you again is not on the table. She's safe in there until we can find a way to clear her name officially. We're working on it, but she is not leaving. I'm not leaving this up to your people, it's too important."

For a moment the two men stared each other down, each unbending, confidently defiant. Ressler with his hands on his hips, Red's clasped in front of him holding his hat. A tilt of Red's head set Ressler momentarily and subtly back on his heels. He knew what that gesture meant – that he was about to be tested.

"Agent Ressler do you ever think about the person who has to clean this room?" Red said, his voice a crackling snarl so low Liz could barely hear. He shook his head as if in disbelief. "Imagine the amount of bleach they must go through, what with the sheer volume of blood that has plastered both sides of that box these past couple of years. Yours included, Donald. Or don't you remember our little incident and what I did for you."

Ressler tilted his head. "Where are you going with this?"

"What I am saying is that the real work, the lowdown, dirty, invisible work… is done in the dark. When the people with the suits and badges go home. It's imperative that some of you work in the daylight, to keep the world working. But when it comes to justice, and keeping those safe who have no other means to do so… that work is done when you go home. So I implore you Donald, go home. And allow those of us who work best in the dark, do what we do best – the unpleasant work in the dirt. Or need I remind you that it was the very thing that saved your life once."

"It's not going to happen." Ressler didn't move a muscle. He could not show one ounce of hesitation or Red would weasel his way into his resolve.

"I had higher hopes for you, Donald." Red said, mirthless laughter in his voice. "Perhaps today it will be you with the spray bottle of bleach, cleaning up what's left of our girl. Best of luck to you, assuming you do not end up collateral damage. In which case I'm assuming it will be our poor tenderhearted Aram with his hands in the blood and viscera." He donned his hat, strategically hiding his eyes during the more unpleasant parts of his appeal.

"Fine," Ressler spat. "You have 10 minutes while I go upstairs and wait for Hitchens. But that's all you get, Reddington. We have eyes on you; Aram is up there on the monitors." His footsteps echoed off the walls and up the stairs. The door slammed shut, leaving the room silent save the breathing of its two remaining occupants.

With all the calm he could muster, Red approached the box. He waited until the last possible moment to raise his eyes to meet hers. She could tell that beyond the relief, it cut him to the bone to see her in that box. The weight of the world rested upon his soul, dragged at his lips.

"Lizzie," he said, placing his fingers on the glass. "Are you alright?"

"I've been better," she said, placing her palm over the glass where his fingers lingered. She managed a small smile; more than all the fear, she wanted him to know that she was happy to see him. The relief that came from seeing his face settled into her like the liquid warmth of a strong drink.

"I'll get you out." His voice was a protective growl, low and deep. Foreboding. She knew that he meant it. That if anyone could do it, he could.

"I'm scared," she said, a wincing gasp jerking through her chest. She was going to cry but god she didn't want to. The more she wished away the panic, the more her lungs jumped for air, threatening to erupt in piteous, manic sobs. It set Red's eyes wild with desperation. He glanced at the keypad on the wall.

"Did Aram set the code? Do you know?" he asked, his voice hurried with a sudden realization.

"I don't know who else would have."

Red opened the panel, narrowing his eyes on the keys.

"They're watching, Red," she said warningly. "They'll see you let me out."

"Aram will," he said liltingly as if it was of no matter.

After a series of halting beeps, the door creaked open silently; Aram had temporarily disabled the alarm. The door lock opened with a clunk and Red strode in as confidently as ever. For a moment they stood with their eyes intent on each other. Liz closed the gap between them greedily and she wrapped her arms tightly around him, gathering handfuls of his navy windbreaker still cool from outside. She buried her face into his neck, inhaling the warm scent of his skin. He was here. He was real. And she would be alright.

His hands wound around her back, holding her steady and close. Their hearts thrummed against their ribcages, keening toward each other. They held each other close until they were breathing together – in and out, in and out, quickly at first and then slow. Red pulled away only enough to search her face, his eyes darting between hers.

"Are you alright?" he breathed.

"I'm fine. Are you OK, the last I saw you I was so scared you were gone, what happened?"

"A brief and harrowing encounter with some residents of a nearby trailer park but that's a story for another time I'm afraid." He straightened his jacket. "As I'm sure you're aware, Agent Ressler is headed into a veritable Dole factory of banana peels and quickly so we don't have much time. Laurel Hitchens will not arrive for another five or so minutes and it's imperative we are out before then."

"And how do you expect that we just leave," Liz said, fear fluttering anew in her chest. "They're up there watching."

"A sequence of doors and security cameras have been disabled and we will exit out the back."

"But Aram… it's too obvious, they'll fault him for it. They'll tear his life apart thinking that he helped us," Liz said in a panic.

"Oh I intend to leave a proper calling card," he said, presenting a piece of stationary from his breast pocket and dropped it on the floor. She watched it flutter into the corner and looked back in time to see his hand outstretched to her.

"You can make whatever decision you choose, Lizzie. But I am begging you to come with me. You may be safe here for the moment but I won't rest with you in that box," he said, his voice imploring. She could see in his eyes that he was remembering Luli. "I can't leave you here."

She took his hand and clutched it for dear life, all her trust in him.

"Let's go."

In the corner of the box sat a piece of stationary and, on it, his signature bright red scrawl: "Romeo always comes back for Juliet."