Hostage to you | B.E

29 '7131'

Raven's POV

The alarm chirps and I'm upright before my brain has time to wonder why.
Marathon morning.

My gear is lined up soldier-straight on the dresser:
- singlet with bib 7131 already pinned
- compression shorts, fresh socks
- racing flats with the laces double-knotted
- four lemon-lime gel packs
- tiny Sharpie heart Billie drew on my wrist last night while I was stretching

I down oatmeal, a banana, half a cup of coffee. Nerves hum under my sternum—good nerves, the kind that keep you honest about pace and hydration.

Billie appears in the doorway, hoodie hanging past her knees, socks mismatched. Her hair is braided tight; freckles are still pillow-soft on her cheeks. She yawns, then grins like she wasn't up till two making a playlist called "Run, Baby, Run."

"Ready to smash twenty-six point two?" she asks.

"Ready to survive it," I answer, but my smile gives away the truth: I love this. The structure, the pain, the finish line that doesn't move when the world does. Training has kept my head on straight while Jesse, paparazzi, and every tabloid rumor tried to spin me off axis.

Billie lifts a black duffel. Hoodie, KN95 mask, oversize sunglasses on top. Her disguise kit. "I'll pop around the course. Text checkpoints. Nobody'll know." She kisses the Sharpie heart. "Fly."

Thirty thousand runners shuffle inside metal barricades, breath frosting the half-light. Loudspeakers blast Lizzo; somebody nearby floss-dances to keep warm. Above the jumbotrons, the sky is lavender, threaded with the first hint of gold.

I bounce on my toes, shake out arms, roll my neck. Marathon officials in neon vests sweep through corrals checking bibs. A motorcycle camera crew edges forward, already filming the elites.

My phone buzzes in the side pocket of my shorts.

Billie: I'm at the first turn, Stadium Way + Elysian Park. Mask & hoodie in play. See you at mile 0.2. 🖤

I crane my neck. Beyond the gate I catch a yellow hoodie, head down, hands stuffed into kangaroo pouch. She has the posture of a kid trying to vanish in class. My chest lifts. Still here. Always here.

A cannon fires.
The wheelchair division rockets out.
The elite women step to the line.
Then my corral surges forward as the announcer counts down:

"THREE—TWO—ONE—GO!"

We pour out of the stadium like a living river. The downhill feels reckless, easy. People scream my bib number—"Seven-one-three-one!"—though they don't know my name. Billie flashes a peace sign from behind the barrier, her mask puffing with laughter.

Chin up, spine tall, cadence locked at 180 steps per minute. The first mile marker clicks by. My watch beeps 6:48. Fast—but adrenaline will lie to you if you let it. I dial back.

We sweep through Chinatown. Lion dancers in red satin roar as drums boom deep in my ribs. The smell of incense mixes with orange slices volunteers hold on trays like jewels.

A second text:

Billie: Chinatown gate = 5 K. I'm good. You look like a bullet.

I grin so hard my cheeks hurt.

The crowd thins; serious runners claim their lanes. My breathing settles—two inhales through the nose, one exhale through the mouth. The Silver Lake hill is long, gradual, a psychological test. I pass a pack of weekend warriors already walking. Spectators wave glittery posters: "PAIN IS TEMPORARY, INTERNET RESULTS ARE FOREVER."