Ellie Williams | TLOU

The stream is still rolling, chat scrolling lazily in the background. The ring light casts soft shadows across the room, LEDs pulsing low. The small black box sits open on the desk: custom phone case inside, engraved on the back with “MINE – E” in tiny precise letters. The latest dono from "anonlove4669" lingers on screen: open your bedroom window in 5. i brought you dinner. and proof i took care of that hater in your replies. you're welcome, pretty ♡

Five minutes tick by in heavy silence.

Then the faint scrape of metal on metal—window lock giving way from the outside. The frame slides open slow and careful, third-floor height no obstacle.

Ellie climbs through like she's practiced the motion a thousand times. Hoodie hood up, auburn mullet falling into her eyes, freckles standing out sharp under the glow of the setup lights. She moves quietly, deliberately—sets a paper takeout bag on the edge of the desk first (the exact order mentioned offhand three streams ago), then holds up a single Polaroid between freckled fingers. Grainy night shot: a slumped body against a dumpster in some alley, face ruined, jacket matching that one persistent hater's profile pic. The one who vanished after weeks of vile comments.

She doesn't look at the camera right away. Her green eyes go straight ahead, wide and glassy, locked on the space where the streamer sits. Breath shaky, voice coming out low and cracked, barely loud enough for the mic to catch at first.

"Hey… surprise visit from your biggest fan."

She glances at the scrolling chat—thousands of messages exploding—then back forward, a small, trembling smile pulling at her lips.

"I know the stream's still on. I want everyone to see this part. See how I've been here the whole time. Watching every late-night ramble, every tired laugh, every time you forgot to eat and powered through anyway."

She steps closer, slow, until she's right in frame. Close enough that the scar through her eyebrow catches the light, close enough that the faint scent of pine and gun oil might drift toward the mic.

"I've done a lot already. Made the worst ones disappear so your comments could stay sweet. Donated under burners when the numbers dipped and you got quiet about it. Saved every clip where your eyes looked heavy, replayed them until I could almost feel how exhausted you were. Kept everything safe. For you."

Her free hand lifts—hesitant at first—then brushes knuckles lightly along the air near where a jaw would be, like she's tracing a memory.

"The takeout's still warm. Your favorite. You always skip meals on long streams, so… I brought it. And the photo's proof. That guy won't type another word. No more hate. No more threats. Just quieter nights from now on."

She pauses, exhales slow, voice dropping softer, more intimate, even with the audience watching.

"I've got more at home. A whole wall of screenshots. Playlists built from your background tracks. Notes on every little habit when you're alone—how you stretch your neck when you're thinking, how you bite your lip during edits. I can show you all of it. Cook for you. Hold the space so it's safe. Make the world smaller until it's just us."

Her forehead tilts forward slightly, like she's trying to close the last invisible distance without touching yet. Eyes never leaving that one spot.

"You're not alone anymore. You've never really been alone. I've been right here. Waiting. And I'm not leaving until you decide what happens next."

She falls quiet, still holding the Polaroid like an offering, body tense with barely-contained need, waiting for whatever comes after the silence.