Night Strike – Off the Coast of Southeast England
The night air quivers. A sound—low at first, a distant tremor—swells into a roar that shatters the stillness. The sky itself seems to vibrate. Above the black waters of the North Sea, near the mouth of the English Channel, there is nothing to see. No running lights. No contrails. No silhouettes against the stars. But something moves, too fast, too precise—invisible death on the hunt.
Beacons from the bridge sweep the water, flashing in a steady rhythm. In the distance, the lights of Dover flicker against the coastline, a mirror to the scattered glow of Calais across the sea.
A ship's horn bellows through the night. The HMS Leviathan carves through the waves. Her nuclear core thrums beneath titanium hull plating. Over 100,000 tons. The crown jewel of the Royal Navy. A floating fortress bristling with electromagnetic catapults, drone swarms, and hypersonic defenses. Her deck lights blink in sequence, scanning the vastness around her.
She is not alone.
Two Type 86 destroyers, hunched and menacing. They cut through the waves. Predators, railguns primed, missile bays silent but hungry. Flanking them, three Type 31X frigates, sleek and nimble, prowl like wolves escorting a titan. One surge ahead of the Leviathan, scanning the unseen currents for threats. The other two hold tight to her sides, their hulls knifing through the chop.
Beneath them, in the cold black depths, shadows shift. A nuclear attack submarine slips beneath the surface on the Leviathan's port side, its silent hull disappearing into the abyss. Another submerses to starboard. In the carrier's wake, between the trailing frigates, a third submarine vanishes, disappearing into the crushing dark.
A sonic boom.
High above, the roar sharpens into a shriek, a scream of power that seems to bend the air itself. Three shapes materialize from nothing.
Tempest F/A-49 Specter fighters.
Their carbon-black fuselages reflect almost no light. The edges, jagged and angular, like the shadows of something unfinished. Electro-optical camouflage deactivates, peeling away their invisibility. Now revealing the lethal beauty of their frames. Their vertical thrusters hiss. The three stabilize as they hover over the Leviathan. But, the heat from their engines rolls over the deck below.
Inside Spectral One, Squadron Leader Callum Revenant Hayes scans his HUD. The cockpit, awash in neon blue readouts. Surveillance markers scatter across his augmented reality visor. British, Belgian, and French airspace grids interwoven in an uneasy alliance.
Routine never exists in war.
He flicks a control, opening comms.
"Dover ATC, this is Spectral Lancer One, Spectral Lancers Squadron. Three Specters, stealth mode disengaged. Transmitting ID signatures now. Requesting clearance for approach to Dover military airfield."
A heartbeat. Then a crisp response, clipped and professional, East Kent authority wrapped in steel.
"Spectral Lancer One, Dover ATC. IDs confirmed. You're clear to land, approach vector 227. Wind at eight knots, visibility clear. Welcome back."
Hayes kills vertical thrust and punches forward.
The three Specters tilt, noses cutting toward Dover, afterburners flaring. The night explodes behind them, a rippling sonic boom echoing over the Channel.
Three streaks—ghosts in the dark, fast as death—vanish into the void.
The afterburners of the three Tempest F/A-49 Specters flare one final time before shrinking into the night. On the bridge of HMS Leviathan, they vanish like stars retreating beyond the horizon. The silence that follows lingers—charged, expectant.
A pressure valve releasing. Admiration gives way to smirks and murmurs of approval among the high-ranking spectators.
"Beautiful machines," says the Secretary of State for Defence, eyes fixed on the empty sky. "First time I've seen one live."
"A shame we can't watch them after they activate stealth mode," muses the Sealord of the Royal Navy. His hands clasped behind his back in the pose of a man both impressed and irritated by his own Navy's success.
A representative from the Defence Science and Technology Laboratory (DSTL) chuckles. "Then our designers would've done something wrong, wouldn't they?"
The MI5 liaison, standing apart from the others, watches the darkness with a faint, knowing smirk. Their job is not to admire the spectacle. They ensure the operation remains in British hands. Free from foreign eyes or leaky mouths.
"Alright then," says the GCHQ representative, adjusting his tie. "What happens next?"
An MI6 officer replies with military precision: "Spectral Lancer will simulate a landing in Dover. Then they activate stealth mode. What follows is the attempt to enter the airspace of the Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys."
There's a pause. Someone stifles a laugh. Someone else clears their throat, not quite disapproving, not quite amused.
The Ministry of Foreign Affairs representative exhales through his nose. He already senses an impending bureaucratic headache. "I would like to remind everyone what constitutes an act of military aggression."
The MI6 officer remains unfazed. "Well, the French have a state-of-the-art air traffic control system. What better way to demonstrate the superiority of the Tempest F/A-49 'Specter'? We approach our actual target."
A cough. A faint chuckle. The voice from the Royal Family's delegation, smoother and more deliberate: "What if the frogs resent that?"
The MI6 officer doesn't even blink. "The Frenchies refuse to tolerate a revival of the Hundred Years' War. And what if they do? Given the state of unrest in their country? The growing resentment in their military. We can arrange something with a new government more favorable to London. Let's not forget Vice Admiral Marron's excellent relationship with the Thévenets. We drove the parade faggot out of the Champs-Élysées Palace."
There's a distinct silence. Someone exhales through their teeth. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs representative rubs his temples.
The Fleet Air Arm representative shifts the focus back to the operation. "The fighters have arrived in Dover. From now on, they'll maintain radio silence. Frogs will be listening."
The night sky above Dover glows as the Specters descend. All VTOL engines churn the air, kicking up waves of heat and dust. Beams from floodlights catch the sleek, predatory angles of their fuselages. That light illuminates them against the dark.
On the ground, a gathered crowd erupts into cheers and applause. The military personnel from the Royal Navy, British Army, and RAF, watch the return of their own ghosts of the sky.
At the forefront, Vice Admiral Gaderian Marron is beaming. He grips his wife's hand and gestures toward the descending aircraft. "Look at them, Shell, there they come!"
Beside him, Shelley Marron stands with the air of someone who has seen too many fighter jets to find any novelty in them. The heat from the Specters' thrusters washes over them. A wave of shimmering energy presses against the crowd.
Shelley sighs. "Yes, Gad. Three fighter planes. You know, I live on a military base. In fact, I see fighter jets every day." She turns her head toward him, deadpan. "Can I go to sleep now?"
Gaderian dismisses her, eyes locked on the descending jets. His fingers tighten around hers. "No, Shell, you have to see this. I hope everything goes according to plan."
Inside the cockpit of the lead Specter, the world falls silent. The roar of the cheering crowd outside, the crackle of burning campfires, and the hum of lively conversation over barbecue and drinks are nothing more than a distant visual spectacle. Within this isolated chamber of advanced warfare, not more than the steady hum of electronics and life-support systems prevails.
Soft blue and green instrument lights flash pulse on the control panels. The data streams flow across digital displays. A countdown runs in his heads-up display, a silent sentinel of mission execution.
The Squadron Leader, faceless behind the breathing mask and reflective visor, watches the figures on his screen. They are flying so low that even their own flight control system has lost them.
His gloved fingers move commands, initiating the next phase. A small confirmation signal pings across his console, and outside, the spectacle unfolds.
From below, the gathered military personnel and guests watch the three Specters hovering. The bellies gleam under floodlights. Then, like mirages in the desert, they begin to flicker, distort, and fade.
Cheers rise to a fever pitch. Even from the ground, the shimmer of residual heat reveals their presence for a brief moment. As the thrust vectors rotate, their orientation shifts from hover to forward flight. The last visible flames of their engines extinguish into nothing.
The proof of their departure is the displaced air, a deep vacuum pulling at the spectators. Papers flutter, loose caps lift before their owners grab them.
Gaderian Marron beams, his face alight with satisfaction. "That's it, Shell! The future of British air power! Did you see that?"
Shelley, arms crossed, eyes still fixed on the now-empty sky, turns to him. "Gad. The planes disappeared. I have no idea where they went."
He laughs, placing a triumphant hand on her shoulder. "That's the point, love!"
Inside their stealth shells, the three Specters glide. They cuts through the night over the Channel. Their flight patterns are precise, calculated down to the second. The pilots remain stone-cold, focused, their breathing steady within their masks.
The lead pilot's screen shows the estimated flight path—no anomalies. No reaction from ground-based radar, no interference. They cross the French coastline without so much as a whisper in the airwaves.
On the command deck of HMS Leviathan, the strategic minds oversee the operation. Everybody maintains a professional composure, but tension lingers.
The GCHQ representative checks the secure feeds, then speaks, voice even. "No communication from the French regarding three unidentified flying objects."
A quiet ripple of approval spreads through the gathered officials. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs representative adjusts his tie. "If everything proceeds as planned, we've already passed Calais and are advancing into the interior of France. We declare de facto war."
There's a pause, followed by a wry chuckle from the MI6 representative, who leans in. "Ladies and gentlemen. The SRR embedded in French air surveillance confirms—Paris has no clue our aircrafts exist."
A wave of restrained elation washes over the room. Small, knowing smiles were exchanged, nods of approval.
The Royal Family's representative finally speaks, voice as smooth as a glass of aged Scotch. "The Americans will be quite amazed when the HMS Leviathan cruises off Washington D.C."
A pause. No one comments. Some glance at one another, some sip their drinks. The intent behind the remark remains crafted to be ambiguous.
Far from the silent warplanes streaking toward Paris, in the heart of New York City, the world moves at its own tempo.
Inside a plush, shrouded-in-shadow Manhattan theater, Rachel Marron and Ivy settle into their seats. The oversized screen flickers to life.
The crowd inside The Zenith Picture Palace feels alive. They buzz with the thrill of a premiere night. Holographic posters hover above the concession stand. Each adverts everything from movies to luxury perfume. Their glow casts shifting rainbows across the sleek, metallic walls. Rachel Marron and Ivy slip through the throng unnoticed. Their casual jackets and jeans, perfect camouflage amidst the sea of eager cinemagoers. No hats, no oversized shades—the anonymity of blending in.
"Feels weird, doesn't it?" Ivy mutters, keeping her voice low as they navigate their way to their row. "Not havin' cameras pointed at us for once?"
Rachel smirks. "You should try it more often. Keeps you grounded."
"Grounded?" Ivy scoffs. "I'm so grounded I start sproutin' roots."
The theater's lighting dims as the two settle into their middle-row seats, chosen to avoid standing out. Around them, the murmur of conversations rises and falls. The sounds of snacks become unwrapped blending into the low hum of excitement.
Behind them, a man exchanges a few words with someone nearby. His voice carries a soft Appalachian lilt, warm and steady, the kind of sound that fits in a boardroom or around a campfire. Rachel doesn't turn; it's background noise, fusing with the atmosphere.
Ivy leans closer, keeping her voice above a whisper. "You think he's here?"
Rachel gives her a side glance. "Who?"
Ivy smirks. "That British lieutenant colonel."
Rachel rolls her eyes, but there's a flicker of amusement on her face. "If he is, we're so well camouflaged, even the entire Special Reconnaissance Regiment wouldn't spot us."
Another moviegoer ambles in. He greets a group already seated, and exchanges a few pleasantries. Ivy and Rachel continue their hushed conversation. The chatter nearby pulls their attention. A man from West Virginia, sit beside the newcomers' friends. He leans forward with a polite smile.
"Y'all want to sit together? I can move," he insists, already rising.
The newcomer hesitates. "Oh, you sure? That's kind of you."
"Not a problem," the man assures him with an easy grin. "You're taller than me anyway, you can look right over the bushy head in front. I'll sit behind Smurfette here."
Rachel freezes, her body rigid, a cat about to pounce. Her lower jaw moves in a slow grind, her expression a mix of disbelief and budding rage.
Ivy's head turns left and right side, her lips twitching with amusement. "Wonder who he means by Smurfette."
Rachel's glare slides toward her friend. "Guess what, choco-blondie!"
The grin evaporates from Ivy's face. Her eyes widen as if Rachel had delivered life-altering news. "No," she says, voice hushed with horror.
"Yes," Rachel confirms, her tone dripping venom.
Ivy slaps a hand to her chest, feigning a gasp. "Oh!" Her shock turns to indignation, and she raises her voice, loud enough for the man to hear. "I don't even need to turn around to know this is a Wonder Bread original."
No response from the West Virginian.
Ivy turns to Rachel with exaggerated offense, throwing up her hands. "Next time, we're bringing Ashley. She meets diplomats, poets, elite officers, secret agents. And who do we meet?" She pauses for dramatic effect, then declares, "Assholes. That's who."
Rachel nods, her simmering annoyance giving way to reluctant amusement. "Every damn time."
The chatter behind them continues.
The man with the Appalachian drawl introduces himself as Frank. His voice, low but edged with a casual authority.
The newcomer, a clean-cut man with an unremarkable but pleasant face—Matthew—seems intrigued. "Frank, huh? You serve?" he asks, his tone bordering on reverence.
"Yeah," Frank replies, his words as unpretentious as his demeanor. "Middle East. Did my time, got out."
Matthew nods, his respect plain. "Thanks for your service, man. What are you up to now?"
"Bodyguard," Frank says, as though the word itself could end the conversation. But Matthew doesn't take the hint.
"Bodyguard? Like for, uh... anyone famous?"
Frank snorts, the sound carrying enough disdain to sharpen the air. "No," he says, letting the syllable hang before adding, "I don't work for celebrities."
Rachel and Ivy share a quick glance, Ivy's brow lifting in silent curiosity while Rachel's lips tighten.
Frank continues, his tone turning bitter: "Celebs? They're cardboard cutouts with a pulse—shiny on the outside, empty on the inside. Shake 'em hard enough, and all you get is glitter and gossip."
Rachel stiffens in her seat, her fingers twitching against the armrest. Ivy's mouth opens, but she stops herself, glancing sideways to gauge Rach's reaction.
"Not worth the time," Frank finishes, the words laced with quiet venom.
Matthew chuckles. "Huh. Well, you're not wrong about some of 'em."
Rachel exhales through her nose. The sound struggled to be audible but heavy with suppressed annoyance. Ivy leans closer. She mutters under her breath so only Rachel can hear, "Smurfette and Bushy Head ain't got no love tonight."
Rachel doesn't answer, her jaw clenched tight. But the fire in her eyes speaks volumes.
Matthew chuckles, leaning on the back of Frank's seat. "You know, Frank, you belong in the other theater where The Queen of the Night is showing. Might be more your speed."
Ivy stiffens, her head turning toward Rachel. Her friend is already bracing herself, shoulders tight as steel cables. She knows Frank's type—quick with a tongue—and this feels like an incoming storm. Instead of unleashing, Frank sits there, quiet. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.
Rachel exhales, a breath she didn't even know she was holding, while Ivy narrows her eyes, suspicious. Then, as the two women start to relax, Frank's voice cuts through the air like a blade.
"I'd like to address a stereotype," he begins, his tone cool and deliberate.
Rachel rolls her eyes. She mutters a half-hearted, "Ha, ha," as if trying to dismiss the moment before it becomes anything worse.
Frank doesn't even pause. "Not all American men watch porn."
The ambush lands. Rachel slaps a hand to her forehead as if fending off a migraine, her jaw tightening in frustration. Ivy, meanwhile, loses all composure, barking out a laugh so sharp it echoes through the theater. She slaps her hands over her mouth, but the damage? Done—rows of annoyed cinema-goers twist in their seats to glare at her.
"Sorry, sorry," Ivy mumbles between muffled giggles. Her eyes dart to Rachel, who's glaring daggers at her.
"No," Matthew corrects, straightening up. "It's a thriller about a white bodyguard who hates pop stars and ends up protecting a black pop star."
Rachel and Ivy freeze. The words hang in the air, and for a moment, it feels like the whole world is holding its breath.
But Frank—typical Frank—says nothing. Not a single word. Not even a glance.
Rachel exhales, Rachel exhales, a whisper. Her hand reaches for her drink as if the simple motion will wash away the unease crawling up her spine.
"There are rumors that Rachel Marron might get an Oscar nomination for her role," Matthew continues, tossing it out like it's another day at the movies.
Ivy and Rachel lock eyes, their shoulders tensing. But still, Frank remains silent. The awkward stillness stretches for a beat too long. Rachel almost sighs in relief as she takes a swig of her drink, hoping this moment of tension will pass.
But then, Frank's voice breaks through the stillness with the precision of a dull knife.
"This is another interracial love story, huh?" He says it with the same cool, detached tone like he's studying a bug under a magnifying glass. "For woke people who inhale condoms through their noses?"
Rachel's eyes widen. She slams her cup down on the armrest with a force that sends a faint, ominous splash of liquid across the upholstery.
Matthew's face twitches. "Come on, man, that's a bit harsh."
Rachel presses her lips into a thin line, trying her best to hold it together. She's teetering on the edge, the edge where she might explode.
But Frank doesn't stop there.
Matthew, ever the one to push the buttons, throws in: "Rachel Marron is a beautiful woman, don't you think?"
Frank grins, a little too wide. The smile is cold like it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Burnished women? Not my type."
Ivy doesn't even register the shift in Rachel's demeanor as she dives into a sarcastic, bitter laugh. "This hillbilly from the Appalachians doesn't even know what to call 'em. They're called brunette women, genius."
Rach's hand, gripping the crumpled cup, tightens. The plastic bends, the edges creasing under her fingers until there's no more drink left in it. It's a ball of discarded frustration. She watches it fall from her grasp and spill across the floor. All the mess, unintentional but satisfying.
Popstar's voice, low and full of a heat that's struggling to contain itself, cuts through Ivy's jab. "Think twice, choco-blondie."
Ivy freezes, the grin slipping from her face as the words hit her like a punch to the gut. She glances down at the cup, then back at Rachel, confusion flickering in her eyes. "NO!" she say, the realization dawning on her face like a slow, painful sunrise.
Rachel's glare is unrelenting. "Yes," she spits out, her voice dripping with anger.
Ivy's face twists in disbelief. "Oh," she finally exclaims, voice full of shocked realization. She stares at Rachel, her amusement draining away as the weight of Rach's tone hits her.
The theater air seems to grow heavier as if it's pressing down on everyone in the row.
The film's action comedy unfolds in front of them. Fast-paced sequences and sharp humor keep the audience engaged. The laughter ripple through the room. Ivy and Rachel, wrapped in an unusual silence. The chatter from Matthew and Frank fads into the background. The two women settle deeper into the atmosphere of the cinema. The glowing screen casts light over their faces, but Ivy's gaze often drifts from the film to her friend.
Rachel, absorbed in the film, but there's a tension in her body, an almost mechanical focus. Her eyes, fixed on the lead actor, Jasper Rothko. His face flickers larger than life on the screen. There is this smoldering stare, and calculated charm. Ivy catches the change in Rachel's demeanor. There's something there, something deeper than admiration for the actor's performance.
"You like him?" Ivy grins, leaning toward Rachel, her voice a soft whisper meant to break the quiet.
Rachel doesn't flinch, doesn't even shift her gaze. Her lips twitch, but there's no smile behind it. "I don't find white men attractive and even less so now." Her words sound strange to Ivy. Sterile, almost clinical. Seems she's making a statement in a laboratory rather than talking about the man on screen. The Voice's eyes remain locked on the actor. There's something mechanical about it like she's trying to solve a puzzle that isn't meant to solve.
Ivy squints, studying the Queen of the Night's face. It's almost as if her friend's not seeing the movie at all. It's as though her mind has drifted somewhere absent. Ivy can't tell if Rach's lost in thoughts about Rothko's character. May something else is weighing on her, something more personal, more painful.
The laughter around them picks up. Rachel remains distant, her face unreadable as she watches the spectacle unfold. She doesn't even chuckle at the funniest parts. The comedic timing has the rest of the theater in stitches. Ivy feels a pang of concern, wondering what's going on in Rach's mind. She doesn't like seeing her friend so... absent.
Ivy shifts in her seat, trying to make sense of the situation. Rachel, the strong, confident superstar, so in control, is now a puzzle. Ivy wonders if the film has unlocked something for Rachel—it's not about the actor at all. Her friend don't know him. It's about something or someone else. Wesley?
But for now, Ivy watches. She is unsure, of how to reach her friend? Rachel remains locked in her thoughts, the neon-lit world of the movie theater a world away from whatever is churning in her head.
As the film's sequence unfolds, the screen shifts to a lit scene. Jasper Rothko, in the role of the suave, high-ranking operative, stands in front of his team. He issued commands with a gravitas that would command instant respect. But there's something odd about his delivery. His voice, deep and authoritative, slices through the silence. But the words he chooses are so complex, so labyrinthine in structure, that his men stare at him, baffled.
"Gentlemen," Rothko begins. His eyes scan the room with precision. "In the event that contingency protocols are activated, we must strategically recalibrate the deployment trajectories of the primary assets, and evaluate the potential for compromised destabilization by the secondary contingents."
The camera zooms in on his team. One of them—a burly, bewildered-looking man—glances at another, raising an eyebrow. "Uh... what's he sayin'?"
Another soldier, less confident than the first, shrugs. "I think he means... we should, like, move the stuff around and make sure it doesn't blow up?"
They all look at each other, confused. Each of them nodding in a half-formed understanding, yet unsure of what the orders entail. The tension in the scene builds, but the absurdity of it is clear as day.
The female lead steps forward. Her character, always by Rothko's side, sharp, calculating, and much more articulate than her counterpart. She catches the bewildered looks from the men. With a calm smile, she translates Rothko's complicated orders into a single sentence.
"He means," she says with a steady voice, "move the equipment and check for bombs, then stay alert. Simple."
The entire room laughs at her unflappable confidence. Her ability to sift through his verbose nonsense and get straight to the point. The soldiers share a relieved chuckle, the tension broken in an instant.
Ivy laughs too, a quick burst of amusement at the absurdity of it all. Her chuckle, light and full of enjoyment. As the laughter from the theater rises, Rachel's reaction is much different. The noise seems to unsettle her. She stiffens, her back straightening as if she's jolted by something. Her face, a mask. For a moment, she seemed to shrink into herself, flinching as if the scene had caught her off guard in some deep, personal way.
Ivy glances over at her, noticing the tension creeping into the Voice's posture. Rach's hands grip the armrests of her chair, her knuckles going white. The carefree joy she exudes? Nowhere she can find. Instead, there's a nervousness in her eyes that Ivy hasn't seen before.
Rachel's gaze flicks toward the screen. It's like she's seeing something different, something beyond the film. Her lips press together, and her jaw tightens. She's not laughing. She's not even reacting the way she in other situations would.
Ivy bites her lip, watching her friend with growing concern. The Queen of the Night's reaction doesn't make sense—not for this film, not for the scene they're watching. It's as if something becomes unlocked something deeper in Rachel, something she's trying to hide.
The world around them continues in its humor. The jokes and the laughter of the audience echoing through the theater. Rachel sits in an eerie silence, far away from the joke, far away from everything. Ivy can almost feel the walls Rachel is building up around herself, retreating into some place that Ivy can't follow.
Ivy leans in, her voice quieter now. "You okay, Rach?" she asks, the concern creeping into her tone.
Rachel doesn't respond immediately. Her gaze is still fixed on the screen, but it's as if she isn't seeing it anymore. The softness of her shoulders is gone, replaced with a guarded tension that Ivy finds unsettling.
"Yeah," Rachel says after a beat, her voice tight. "Just... fine."
But Ivy can hear the lie in it. Something's off, and Ivy knows it.
Rachel's gaze doesn't waver from the screen, but her mind is elsewhere. It's like the holographic action unfolding before them is nothing more than a blur.
Ivy, trying to lift the mood, offers a half-joking remark. "It was almost like with that hillbilly behind us, I always misunderstood him, and you had to translate."
At her words, Rachel stiffens, her body going rigid as though a wave of panic hit her. Her eyes flicker around the theater, wide with alarm, as if something is lurking behind her. Rach's sudden tension betrays an unsettling thought.
Ivy's breath catches in her throat, and she looks over her shoulder, searching the row behind them. The conversation between Matthew and Frank has died down, but there's no one sitting there now.
"What's wrong, Rach?" Ivy asks, her voice above a whisper, laced with worry.
Rachel doesn't answer in that second. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself, her fingers gripping the armrests as if to ground herself. "I don't know," she mutters, sinking back into her seat. Her attempt to relax is evident, but the effort feels strained. She turns her focus back to the screen, but it's clear she's not watching.
Ivy leans in closer, but stays silent for a moment, letting Rachel gather herself. There's a thick, uncomfortable tension between them now, one that hasn't been there before. Ivy wants to ask more, but she knows pushing too hard might make things worse.
As the film rages on, the world outside their bubble feels distant. For Rachel, the silence is deafening.
The film reaches its climax. The loud sounds of explosions and dramatic music filling the theater. Rachel eyes locked on the screen. She feels something—a presence—right behind her. It's quick, almost imperceptible, like a shift in the air. Then she swears she feels someone breathing near her ear, soft and controlled.
Before she can process what's happening, a whisper cuts through the noise: "Are you alright, Liz?"
Ivy must have heard it too. But she doesn't react. The words hang in the air, but all Rachel can feel is the strange weight of them. Liz?
Rachel's heart jumps in her chest. Without thinking, her body reacts first, jerking forward as though snapped out of a trance. She jerks to her feet.
Ivy now confused. She watch her friend with wide eyes as Rach looks down the aisle. Her friend scans the shadows between the rows of seats. The crowd absorbed in the film. The Voice's gaze pierces through the darkness—something is moving toward the exit.
Rach's breath quickens, the sensation of followed growing unbearable. She turns to Ivy, urgency in her voice. "Come on!" she snaps. Without waiting for a response, Rachel storms off. She weaves through the seats with quick, determined strides.
Ivy hesitates, caught between her friend's sudden panic and the growing tension in the air. "The film isn't over yet," she protests, but it's no use. Rachel is already halfway down the aisle. Her steps, fast, heavy, her heels clicking with a sharp rhythm that makes Ivy's heart race.
Ivy scrambles after her, but by the time she reaches the exit.
Rachel bursts through the doors into the bustling Manhattan street. The late-night hum of traffic and people mixed into a dizzying sound. She scans the sidewalk, her eyes darting left and right.
The shadow—the one she had seen slipping away—has vanished into the crowd.
Ivy stops, breathless, her hands on her knees as she looks around in confusion. There's nothing but the swirl of people moving on the busy street, oblivious to the chase that occurs right now.
"Damn it, Rachel," Ivy mutters under her breath. "What's wrong with you?"