Dark.

Fire.

Smoke.

Heat.

Noise.

Yells.

Screams stuck in her throat as she slams her feet on the floor, leaves chaos in her wake.

Fear.

Blood.

Chloe bolted to the bathroom, her heart in her mouth, her vision a panicked blur. Dry heaves clogged her pipe as she tried to breathe. After an eternity, hours, a handful of seconds, really, she managed to inhale. In. Out. Scraps of oxygen filled her lungs. She managed another breath. Then another. Her pipe was so constrict she made a desperate hissing sound when she breathed in. It didn't matter. She sucked in more, shallow breathes until the world stopped reeling. Slowly, Chloe felt her surroundings come back into view. The white of the bathroom. The porcelain under her palms. She shivered. She was drenched in cold sweat, her skin clammy.

She pushed herself to her feet, almost scared to look at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was red. Her eyes burned from the lack of sleep. Signs of her nightmare, of her memory. She hadn't had one so bad in a while, but she remembered the routine. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Repeat. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

It took another eon for the tension in her stomach to uncoil, for the blood to stop hammering in her head. The headache settled into an excruciating ache, white-hot blades piercing her temples. When she was more or less confident that she was not going to pass out, Chloe released her death grip on the sink to turn the shower on before she crawled in the bath tube. Warm, not hot. The mellow temperature felt like lava on her tortured skin.

As years passed by, as the memory of the safe house's explosion faded, the panic attacks had relented. It'd been a while since she had two in less than a week. Taking piles was too dangerous with the secrets she kept, so she had developed her own tricks to push the anxiety away, to find her center again. Chloe walked through the steps methodically: shower, lather her skin with lotion, brush her teeth, comb her hair, picture something pleasant.

The something pleasant had eyes the color of dark chocolate, and a sunny smile. Chloe sat at the table with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, sweeping through pictures of Oliver Queen on her phone. She was not exactly sure why her mind chose to go back to the beach in Coast City. It shouldn't be relaxing to think about another panic attack, but it was. His murmured "I've got you" echoed in her head, as if he was with her now, with his hands on her shoulders, grounding her in the here and now.

On a whim, she grabbed her laptop and called the feed she'd put in place. Here he was, grinning at the camera as if his entitled pretty self owned the world—which he did, more or less.

Without anything new to feed their canons, scandalmongers and fangirls were revisiting old news and past relationships. One photo in particular held Chloe's attention. He looked dapper in a charcoal Armani suit, the epitome of the carefree billionaire. Lena Luthor hanged at his arm looking bored. She frowned at the picture. The easy smile seemed not to reach the man's eyes. She swept to the next article, then the next. Each time, she caught the glint of something in the dark eyes, something his easy smile couldn't hide completely. She couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was. Just… something.

"In another life, I would have dug out all your secrets, Oliver Queen." she told the picture.

Chloe shook her head, moved on to the next article, one about his late parents. She couldn't tell how long she stayed there looking at pictures and reading gossip nonsense. When she lifted her head again, dawn was painting a pinkish glow on the window, and the clock on the stove turned from4:59 to 5:00.

Then, when those tiny numbers blinked and morphed, she remembered. Today was the day. On this day, four years ago now, Lionel Luthor almost managed to have her killed. He had murdered her father instead.

Chloe lost herself in her work. She listened to the recording of Cecile Adams' interview until the aggravation of the good doctor's voice transformed her headache into a full-blown migraine.

Her first draft betrayed her contempt for the woman so much she simply deleted the entire document. The second was too mellow and ended up in the bin as well. On her third attempt, she believed she had the right tone. Adams still appeared like a robot—a dedicated professional— with zero interest in the human beings impacted by her work—an impartial researcher. Some truths always shined through, Chloe decided, no matter the glaze you put on it.

She wrote, deleted, rewrote, cross-referenced, and edited line after line until her eyes crossed. Morning came and went. Lunch turned into a furious proofreading session, fueled by an egg sandwich, coffee and oreos.

At 3 p.m., she was ready to submit the document to potential publishers. Chloe reached for another biscuit and found the package empty. The blonde woman lifted her head from her laptop, almost surprised by the afternoon glare around her. She had wolfed down a full package of cookies. The coffee pot was once again empty. Chloe pouted. She wanted sugar and caffeine.

The cupboard disappointed her. The fridge turned just as uninteresting. She munched on a baby carrot, dejected. When was the last time she'd taken the time to cook a real meal, instead of slamming a sandwich together or heating soup in the microwave? She needed groceries.

"All right then, marketing it is… What do I need? Coffee, milk, tomatoes…"

She made a list, and walked every single row in the store anyway. She cracked for bocconcini, orange and yellow bell peppers, then splurged for a nice bottle of first cold pressed olive oil. Chloe imagined the scents that would fill the kitchen as she cooked, and decided a homemade meal deserved the right kind of dessert. She backtracked to the dairy counter, and added cream cheese, heavy cream and more eggs to her cart.

When she stepped in the sun again almost two hours later, her arms were full and her credit card wept. Chloe locked hands under the paper bags, and started on her way back. The apartment was only two blocks away, and she had a full pack of biscuits to burn.

She feared for the eggs once when she stumbled on the uneven walkway. After that, she stopped every time she had to rearrange the bags in her arms. Her elbows ached. One of the cans kept bouncing against her ribs. The sun beat hard on her head. She regretted not using the awful hat Tess had landed her after seeing her nose turning scarlet the previous weekend.

"As soon as I have the money, I am buying a car… Oh, sh—"

Of the seven people standing on the opposite side of the street, she knew only one. And it was enough to creep her out.

The man listened with his hands behind his back, his posture so rigid his spine seemed to be made of steel. His head tilted to the side. She could only imagine the piercing stare he zeroed on his opponent when he did. He might be listening but Chloe had little doubts he was perfectly aware of his surroundings. The cat plays with the mouse before it strikes.

Chloe continued toward the end of the block instead of crossing right in front of the group. Her heart sped up when she had no choice but to get across the street. There was only one access to the building and no obstacle between there and him. She had one chance to get in. A slim chance to make it safely inside without him seeing her… She hiked the bags in her arms a little higher to hide her face.

Two hundred feet. One hundred. She only needed to step under the archway to be safe. Her stomach churned. She forced her lungs to empty and fill, counting between breaths to stop the panic from rising. Her heart banged hard enough inside her chest to crack ribs. Fifty feet. Forty. Breathe in. Breathe out. Thirty.

"Need a hand?"