She pointed at me with the match, and I flinched despite myself.
“How in the world would I understand you?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Because you do.” She took another step closer, the match still burning, close enough that I could see the fine lines around her eyes and the way her lipstick had started to fade. “You know what it's like to build your whole life around an image. Around being perfect. You know what it's like to sell yourself to survive.”
The words hit too close to home, and something cracked open in my chest—raw and painful, something I'd kept buried for years.
“You're right.” The admission tore out of me. “I know what it's like to feel trapped. To build everything around an image that isn't real. I've spent my whole life performing, trying to prove I was worth something.”
Lauren's eyes lit up. She lowered the match.
“I thought if I worked hard enough, sang loud enough, stayed on every headline and tour and red carpet, maybe I'd matter. That I'd prove to everyone that I was enough.” My throat tightened, but I kept going, the words spilling out like blood from a wound.
Lauren's gaze sharpened, predatory. She was waiting—waiting for me to admit she was right, that we were the same, that I understood her choices.
But I didn't.
“I don't want to live that way anymore.” The words came out stronger than I felt. “I’m done chasing it, done thinking I need to accomplish more to be worthy. You think we're the same, but we're not. You killed people to protect a lie. I'm choosing to stop living one.”
For a moment that stretched like eternity, Lauren didn't speak. Her expression faltered—barely, like a mask slipping—and I saw it. The hollow place where a person used to be. The empty space where empathy, love, and basic human decency should have lived.
She shook out the match once again. The warehouse closed in around me.
“What are you planning to do with me?” I asked.
She tilted her head like I'd asked the most boring question. She picked up the gas can again, this time carrying it around my chair. I couldn't see her anymore; I could only hear the slosh of liquid, smell the intensifying fumes.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she said from behind me. Cold liquid splashed against my back, soaking through my shirt. I jerked forward, but the ropes held. “I obviously can't let you walk away from this.”
Ben moved forward. “Lauren, don’t.”
“Stay back!” She came around to my side, and I could see she'd poured gasoline near my feet, creating a trail back to the main puddle. “You don't get to grow a conscience suddenly, not after everything.”
She pulled out the entire box of matches, shaking them into her hand.
“Wait—” My voice came out strangled. “Please…”
“You couldn't leave it alone,” she hissed, pulling out a match. “I told myself I wouldn't do this. I told myself there had to be another way.” She struck it. The flame caught. “But you left me no choice.”
She held it up; the small flame reflected in her dead eyes.
“No!” Ben lunged forward.
Time slowed. The match arced through the air toward the gasoline trail. Ben's hands closed around her wrist, yanking it back. The match landed on concrete, three feet from the nearest gasoline, sputtering out harmlessly.
Ben slammed into her, sending them both crashing to the floor. The box of matches scattered, skittering about. He pinned her down, one hand on her wrist, the other grabbing for his phone.
“You will not hurt her,” he barked, his voice shaking. “I’m not letting you kill her!”
A sound cut through the warehouse—a distant wail that grew quickly louder. Sirens. Red and blue light flickered through the broken windows.
Lauren's eyes went wide beneath Ben. “You…you called someone,” she hissed, disbelief lacing her voice. “You actually called someone!”
“I called 911 the moment I heard you confess,” Ben said, his voice steadier than it had been all night.
All her control shattered. She bucked beneath him, shoving him off with surprising strength, and ran. Ben lunged after her, his boots pounding against the concrete.
“Police! Don't move!”
