The Promotional Link That Warned Me She Would Kill Titus...

The link changed just after midnight.

I noticed because I had stopped checking it every few minutes. I was sitting at my kitchen table with the laptop open, the room lit by the pale rectangle of the screen and the red numbers on the microwave. The promotional frame still looked harmless at first: a still image, a line urging people to watch the drama series, and the same call to action that had carried the warning into my apartment.

Then the page refreshed.

The button no longer said WATCH THE SERIES.

It said RESERVE YOUR PLACE.

I didn't touch it right away. My hand stayed beside the trackpad while the cursor blinked over the new words. Beneath them, smaller text appeared.

Private campaign preview. Limited attendance. Guest access by invitation only.

I opened the page in a separate window and copied the address into the document Titus and I had been using to compare the link changes. The path was different from the public one, but not completely different. A string of characters remained at the center, the same pattern we had traced back through earlier versions. The invitation hadn't appeared by accident. Someone had built it onto the campaign's existing route.

At the bottom of the page, below the address and time, was one final line.

Please attend alone.

I leaned back from the screen.

The full warning from the video moved through my mind in pieces, each sentence arriving with the same flat, static quality as the promotional frame: "she'll do anything. No, she said alone. If she sees you, she'll kill Titus. You think you're safe going by yourself? She hates you, Sophia. You'll be walking into a trap. I know."

The invitation didn't repeat those words. It didn't need to. It had selected the one instruction that could make me doubt every person willing to stand beside me.

I clicked the confirmation field, then stopped before entering my name.

The venue was a campaign event space attached to a hotel near the county highway. I recognized the address from the event calendar. A public preview, according to the listing. Press, donors, local partners, and selected guests. The invitation called it private because the campaign wanted control over who entered, not because the building was hidden.

That distinction mattered.

I forwarded the page to Titus with a message: It changed. Don't open the link from the original post. I'm sending the saved copy.

His answer came quickly.

Are you safe?

I looked around the kitchen, at the empty chair across from me and the locked back door.

For the moment.

A minute passed.

What does it ask?

I typed, It wants me there alone.

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then returned.

Don't go.

I understood why he said it. He wasn't trying to take control of the decision. He was looking at the same pattern I was: a campaign link that had stopped behaving like advertising and started behaving like a summons.

I almost answered that I wouldn't go. The words sat ready in my head. I could disappear for a few days, stop opening the link, stop answering messages, and let the story settle around my absence. If Titus couldn't find me, he couldn't be pulled into the trap. The unnamed woman had already made his name part of the threat. Removing myself seemed like the only way to keep him out of it.

But the thought left a sour, familiar taste in my mouth.

If I vanished, the invitation would become proof of whatever story the campaign wanted people to believe. Sophia refused to attend. Sophia had nothing to say. Sophia was afraid because she was guilty. Silence had always made room for someone else to speak for me.

I sent Titus another message.

I don't want you inside with me.

His response took longer this time.

I won't be, if that's what you want.

I read it twice. No argument. No demand for details. Just the boundary returned to me.

I opened the saved link again and studied the event information. There was a registration desk, a public reception, and a scheduled presentation about the drama series. The invitation identified no private room and no specific person I was supposed to meet. That was part of the pressure. It expected me to arrive alone and let someone else decide where the encounter happened.

I called Titus.

He answered without greeting. "Tell me what you need."

"I need you nearby," I said. Saying it made my throat tighten. "Not beside me. Not following me into the reception. Nearby."

"Where?"

"Outside the immediate encounter. The public lobby or the parking lot. Somewhere you can see me leave without making it look like you're there to confront anyone."

"Do you want me to bring someone else?"

I closed my eyes. The question gave me room to choose instead of pushing me toward an answer. "One other person. Someone who can stay visible. No recording unless I ask. No approaching the woman if she appears."

"Okay."

"And I check in at set times," I continued. "Before I enter. Ten minutes after I arrive. If I don't answer, you call once. If there's still no answer, you contact the venue's front desk. You don't come in unless there's an immediate safety issue."

There was a quiet pause.

"That sounds like a plan," he said.

"It has to be mine."

"I know."

The next afternoon, I accepted the invitation.

My name appeared on the registration page, followed by a confirmation number and a line telling me to bring identification. The button changed from RESERVE YOUR PLACE to CONFIRMED. For several seconds, nothing else happened.

Then a new message appeared beneath it.

We look forward to seeing you alone.

I took a screenshot, saved the page offline, and printed the confirmation at the small library near my apartment. The printer made a grinding sound as it pushed the page out. I folded it once and placed it in the same envelope as the earlier versions of the link.

When I met Titus outside the library, he didn't reach for the envelope. He only looked at my face.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"No," I said. "But I'm done letting uncertainty make every decision for me."

His expression shifted, almost too slightly to notice. Concern remained there, but so did respect.

"I'll stay where you asked," he said.

I nodded. The event was the next evening. The woman expected me to arrive alone. Instead, I would arrive openly, with a safety plan that didn't hide Titus and didn't give him control of my choices.