Chapter 1: The Elevator Test
The polished marble floors of the Illinois State Capitol building echoed with a hundred different footsteps, a symphony of purpose that Leia Windsor was trying desperately to join. At five feet tall, she felt like a child swimming in a sea of suit jackets and sensible heels. Her auburn curls, fighting valiantly against a professional-looking clip, bounced with each step as she clutched her leather portfolio—handmade, bullet-journal cover, her own design—like a shield.
She’d already memorized the layout of the Governor’s Office suite. She’d also translated a last-minute diplomatic greeting into fluent Mandarin for a staffer who’d looked at her like she’d grown a second head when she offered. And she’d filed three stacks of legislation summaries before ten a.m., cross-referencing amendments in her head because it was faster than the database.
“Windsor! You finished with those H.B. 40 comparisons?”
Marcus leaned against the doorframe of the intern bullpen, all six-foot-two of smug condescension. He had that look, the one she’d seen a thousand times in group homes and in school hallways. The look that said ‘you don’t belong here.’
“On your desk,” Leia said, not looking up from the transportation subsidy report she was annotating. “Emailed you the digital files twenty minutes ago.”
“Right. Good.” He didn’t move. “Just remember, during the staff meeting, it’s cleaner if one voice presents the findings. Mine. You’re still learning the rhythm here.”
She finally met his eyes, her icy blue ones flecked with gold utterly calm. “Sure, Marcus. Whatever helps the team.”
He left, satisfied. Another intern, Chloe, shot Leia a sympathetic glance from across the table. Leia just smiled, a small, shy thing that didn’t reach her eyes. She’d learned long ago that kindness was often mistaken for weakness, but so was quiet confidence. Let him think he’d won. The work spoke for itself. She turned back to her report, her photographic memory already cataloging the precise wording of the third clause for later reference.
The afternoon lull was shattered by a flurry of activity. The Governor was heading to a press briefing on the other side of the complex. Staff and a few lucky interns were to accompany him.
“You, Windsor, and you, Marcus. Let’s go. Now,” the Chief of Staff barked, already striding down the hall.
Leia snatched her portfolio and fell into step, her heart doing a weird little flutter. She’d seen Governor Pritzker from a distance, a large, warm presence moving through the offices. He had a laugh that travelled. She’d also heard him, once, sharply correct a policy advisor on a budget detail, his voice not raised but leaving no room for argument. He was a paradox, and she found that interesting.
They reached the bank of elevators. A small crowd was already waiting—a couple of older staffers she didn’t know, the Communications Director, and the man himself.
Governor Pritzker was listening intently to something the Comms Director was saying, his head tilted, his expression thoughtful. Up close, he was taller than she’d imagined, his suit jacket stretched across broad shoulders. The kind eyes, she noted, had fine lines at the corners, and the easy smile he offered to a passing aide seemed genuine.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding. The group pressed forward. Leia hung back, letting others enter first. The car was a gleaming steel tube, already filling up. Marcus brushed past her, getting in. She took a shallow breath, mentally reciting the Fibonacci sequence, and stepped inside.
The doors groaned shut with a final, metallic thunk.
The press of bodies was immediate. She was near the back, facing the closed doors. The air was warm, thick with the scent of coffee, polished leather, and a faint, clean cologne—sandalwood and something citrusy. The fluorescent light flickered once, casting a sudden strobe-like shadow. The motor hummed beneath her feet, a visceral vibration.
Okay. Nine people. Elevator capacity is twelve. Plenty of air. Doors open in approximately thirty seconds.
They ascended one floor. The car gave a slight lurch. Leia’s nails pressed into the soft leather of her portfolio.
Then, a grinding noise. A jarring halt that sent a ripple through the standing bodies. The lights dimmed, brightened, then stayed dim, casting a sickly yellow glow. The hum of the motor died, replaced by an echoing silence filled with startled breaths.
“What the hell?” Marcus muttered.
A staffer jabbing at the buttons produced only a series of dull, unanswered chimes. The intercom crackled to life with a burst of static that made everyone flinch. “—aware of the situation. Maintenance is on the way. Please remain calm.”
Remain calm.
The walls, which had felt merely close a moment ago, now seemed to contract. The polished steel was no longer a surface but a boundary, pressing in. The air tasted stale, metallic. The faint trace of cologne became cloying, mixing with the scent of sudden, human sweat. Leia’s lungs tightened. It wasn’t a rational thing. It was a primal switch, flipped deep in her hindbrain. Trapped. Buried. No air.
“Great. Just perfect,” Marcus sighed loudly, leaning against the wall. His elbow brushed her shoulder, and she jerked away as if burned. He shot her a look.
She focused on a scratch on the elevator door. She ran through the periodic table. Hydrogen. Helium. Lithium. Beryllium. Her breath hitched on Boron. The ceiling was too low. The floor was rising. The press of bodies wasn’t just proximity; it was weight, crushing her.
“Shouldn’t be long,” the Communications Director said, her voice strained with a false cheer.
Leia felt a tremor start in her hands. She locked her knees. I am not here. I am in the library. I am by the lake. There is sky. There is wind. But there was no wind. Only recycled, suffocating heat. A drop of sweat traced a cold path down her spine. Her heart wasn’t fluttering anymore; it was hammering, a frantic drum against her ribs, echoing the trapped, panicked rhythm in her skull.
“You alright, kid?”
The voice was low, calm, and came from her left. She didn’t turn her head. She couldn’t. If she moved, the fragile dam would break.
“M’fine,” she whispered, the word barely audible.
“She’s fine,” Marcus echoed, rolling his eyes. “Probably just never been in a real elevator before. Heard some of the rural ones are tricky.”
The cruel, dismissive words skittered harmlessly off the rising tide of her panic. The lights flickered again. A collective gasp. In the fleeting darkness, Leia’s control shattered. A small, desperate sound escaped her—a choked whimper.
When the lights steadied, she found herself looking directly into the eyes of Governor JB Pritzker. He had turned, somehow, in the tight space. He wasn’t looking at her with pity or impatience. He was assessing, his gaze sharp and utterly focused on her face, reading the terror in her wide, gold-flecked eyes, the pallor beneath her freckles, the way her chest shuddered with each shallow breath.
He didn’t ask again. He simply acted.
“Marcus,” the Governor said, his tone pleasant but leaving no room for discussion. “Switch places with me.”
“Sir, there’s really no—”
“Now, please.”
The command was quiet, final. Marcus blinked, his smugness faltering. He shuffled awkwardly, and the Governor, with a surprising grace for a big man in a confined space, shifted into the space beside Leia. He didn’t touch her. He simply angled his body, creating a fraction more room, a subtle barrier between her and the rest of the packed car.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice meant for her alone, a low rumble under the rising mutters of the others. It wasn’t an order. It was an anchor.
Her gaze dragged up to his.
“Breathe with me,” he said. He took an exaggerated, slow breath in through his nose, his shoulders rising. He held it for a three-count, then let it out through his mouth, long and controlled. “Just copy me. And out.”
It was ludicrous. The Governor of Illinois was leading her through a breathing exercise in a stuck elevator. The absurdity of it pierced the panic. She mimicked him, her first breath a ragged gasp.
“Again,” he murmured. “Two seconds in. Hold for four. Out for six. Just the numbers. Just the breath.”
She followed the cadence of his voice, clinging to it. One, two. Hold. One, two, three, four.Out. One, two, three, four, five, six. The hammering in her chest began to slow, just a fraction. The walls held their position.
“You’re doing great,” he said. A simple, quiet statement. He didn’t shower her with empty reassurance that everything was okay. He acknowledged her effort. “What’s your name?”
“L-Leia. Leia Windsor. Intern.” The words were broken, but they were words.
“Leia,” he repeated, as if filing it away. “I’m JB. This is a pretty terrible first impression of the building, I apologize. The elevators are older than I am, and that’s saying something.”
A weak, watery smile touched her lips. It felt strange on her face.
The intercom crackled again. “We’re initiating manual override. You may feel a jolt.”
Marcus groaned. “Finally.”
The Governor kept his eyes on Leia. “It’ll be a small movement. It’s safe. Just keep breathing with me, Leia.”
The car shuddered, then began a slow, grinding descent. Her breath hitched, but his steady presence held her focus. Hold. Out.
With a smooth ding that sounded like heaven, the doors slid open onto the busy lobby. Light and sound and cool, glorious air flooded in. The other occupants spilled out with sighs of relief and muttered complaints.
Leia’s legs felt like gelatin. She stumbled forward on her heels, and a large, steadying hand hovered near her elbow without making contact, giving her balance until she found it herself.
“Thank you,” she breathed, the words thick with residual shame. “I’m so sorry, I—”
“Don’t apologize,” he interrupted, his voice firm but kind. “Not for that.” His eyes, which had been so focused on her, now scanned her face, then flickered over her shoulder to where Marcus was loudly recounting the “ordeal” to a clerk. The Governor’s gaze cooled, just for an instant.
He looked back at her, his expression softening. “My office is on the second floor. The stairs,” he added with a slight, knowing emphasis, “are just around the corner. My door is always open if you need a quieter place to work, Leia. No elevator required.”
He gave her a small, genuine nod, then turned to be swept up by his waiting staff, his attention already shifting to the delayed press briefing. But he paused, glancing back at her once more, his thoughtful look lasting a second longer than necessary.
Leia stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the bustling lobby, the chaos swirling around her. The claustrophobic terror was receding, replaced by a profound, unsettling clarity. He had seen her. Not the shy intern, not the easy target for people like Marcus. He had seen the panic, the fracture, and he hadn’t looked away. He’d just… helped.
She adjusted the strap of her portfolio, her fingers steady now. She looked toward the grand staircase, then back at the closed, silent elevator doors. A path had just forked in front of her, though she didn’t fully know it yet. Taking a deep, clean breath of free air, she started walking toward the stairs.
Taking a deep, clean breath of free air, she started walking toward the stairs.
The next week passed in a blur of research, coffee runs, and quietly corrected errors in other interns’ spreadsheets. Leia kept her head down, but her path to the second-floor offices now deliberately bypassed the elevator bank. She used the grand staircase, its marble steps worn smooth by decades of footfalls, and each climb felt like a small, private reclamation.
She’d seen the Governor in passing. He’d nod, sometimes offer a “Good morning, Leia,” remembering her name each time, which sent an inexplicable flicker of warmth through her. He was a comet passing through the office ecosystem—surrounded by aides, trailed by urgency. She was a moss, quietly growing in the cracks, observing everything.
The policy memo on foster care kinship placement incentives was her chance. It had landed on her desk by accident, she was sure, a complex legislative draft meant for a senior analyst. But she’d pounced on it. This was her language, the labyrinth of statutes and funding loopholes she’d lived. She worked through lunches, stayed late, her photographic memory pulling up relevant case law from a report she’d skimmed three days prior. She wrote in clear, compelling prose, balancing hard data with the human impact she understood viscerally. She’d even drafted two potential executive order frameworks, just ideas, tucked in an appendix.
It was hers. And it was good.
On Thursday, a vicious spring storm rolled into Springfield. The sky bruised to a deep purple by four p.m., and the first crack of thunder made her flinch, her pen skidding across a notepad. Astraphobia. Irrational. She recited the facts: she was in a solid stone building. She was safe. But each rumble vibrated in her teeth. She pulled her cardigan tight.
Marcus strolled over as she was proofreading the final printout. “The Governor wants to see the kinship memo before his end-of-day briefing. I’ll take it.”
Leia’s hand rested on the thick report. “I can bring it. I have the context if he has questions.”
“He doesn’t want context from an intern. He wants the document.” Marcus’s smile was thin. “That’s how this works. You do the legwork, we do the interface. Don’t worry, you’ll get a shout-out in the meeting.”
The lie was so smooth, so practiced. Chloe, at the next desk, looked away, ashamed. Another peel of thunder shook the windows. Leia’s heart clenched, twin fears—the storm and this theft—twining together. With a force of will that made her jaw ache, she released the packet. Marcus plucked it from her desk and walked away, the victor.
The office emptied as the storm intensified. Rain lashed the windows in great sheets. The lights flickered, a repeat of the elevator’s failing hum, and Leia jumped. She couldn’t leave. The thought of driving through this, of being exposed in the parking garage, was worse than sitting in the empty, trembling building.
She’d work. That’s what she did. She opened a new file, began transcribing notes from a community zoning meeting, losing herself in the dry minutiae to outrun the thunder.
An hour later, she needed a source document from the printer near the Governor’s suite. The corridors were dark, save for emergency lights. The storm was a living thing, roaring at the stone. She hurried, her footsteps silent on the plush carpet.
A wedge of yellow light spilled from the slightly ajar door to the Governor’s private study, not his formal office. And Marcus’s voice, pitched with confident, oily clarity, filtered out.
“…the primary innovation is in the waiver structure, Governor. It bypasses the county bottleneck entirely. My analysis suggests a nineteen percent increase in permanent placements within the first fiscal year.”
Her words. Her precise percentage. Her innovation.
Leia froze in the shadowed hallway. She knew she should turn, walk back, disappear. This was the ritual. You let them have it. You survived. Tears, hot and furious, welled in her eyes, blurring the emergency exit sign. She wasn’t even surprised. That was the worst part. The quiet, sure expectation of being erased.
She took a shaky step backward.
Inside the room, Governor Pritzker’s voice cut through Marcus’s presentation, low and dead calm. “That’s a remarkable insight. Walk me through your sourcing on the Cook County waiver precedent. The one from 2019.”
A beat of silence. Papers rustled. “It’s… it’s referenced in the footnotes, sir. Page seven.”
“I’m looking at page seven. It cites the case, but the interpretation you just presented—the one that makes this viable—isn’t here. Where did you develop that particular legal interpretation?”
Another, longer silence. The storm seemed to hold its breath. “It’s… it’s implied by the data.”
“Is it.”
The two words were not a question. They were a gavel falling. Leia could see it in her mind—the Governor’s head tilting, those kind eyes gone sharp as chipped flint.
She should have run. But her feet were stone.
“Marcus, who drafted this memo?”
“I did, sir. With my team.”
“Look at me and say that again.”
The command was absolute. The air in the hallway turned to ice. Leia saw the Governor’s shadow move against the light on the carpet, rising, turning. He was facing the door. He was looking directly at her fractured silhouette in the gap.
He knew.
And whatever he saw—the rigid posture, the glint of tears on her cheek in the dim hall light—unleashed something quiet and devastating.
“Get out.”
The words were for Marcus, so softly spoken they were almost lost under a rumble of thunder.
“Sir, I—”
“Get out of my office. Now. Do not speak. Just leave.”
There was a scramble, a clumsy gathering of papers. Marcus appeared in the doorway, his face a mask of blanched confusion and dawning horror. He saw Leia, his eyes widening with a toxic mix of rage and panic. He shoved past her, his shoulder knocking hers, and vanished down the dark hall.
Leia stood, exposed, trembling from the storm and the seismic shift in her universe. She wiped her cheek with a furious hand.
Governor Pritzker stood in the center of the room, the memo held loosely in one hand. He looked at her, and the fury in his face dissolved into something more complex, more weary. He gestured with the document.
“This is exceptional work, Leia,” he said, his voice back to its normal rumble, but threaded with an emotion she couldn’t name. “The executive order frameworks are particularly clever. They’re not just theoretical, are they?”
She shook her head, unable to speak.
“No,” he said, answering his own question. He tossed the memo onto his desk. “This has the weight of lived experience. Which he would have known, if he’d ever bothered to listen to a single word you said.”
He walked toward her, stopping a few feet away, not crowding her. He studied her face, the lingering shock, the pride warring with a lifetime’s instinct to deflect attention.
“It stops today,” he said. A simple declaration. “That chain ends with you, in this hallway. Do you understand?”
She nodded, a tiny, brittle motion.
“Good.” He glanced out the window at the punishing rain, then back at her. “The storm’s bad. I’m working late. You shouldn’t drive in this.”
“I’m okay,” she managed, the automatic response.
“You’re not,” he said, not unkindly. “Astraphobia, right? The elevator, now this. It’s a lot.”
He’d remembered. He’d connected it. The understanding was a physical warmth in her chest.
“Come sit in here. The chair by the bookshelf is comfortable. You can work, or not work. The walls in here are thick. The thunder sounds… less.” He offered a faint, tired smile. “And we can discuss how your memo—your actual memo—is going to become policy.”
He turned, walking back to his desk, giving her the space to choose. To follow, or to flee into the storm.
Leia looked down the dark, empty hallway where Marcus had fled. She looked at the warm, book-lined study. She looked at the Governor, who was already sitting, pulling the annotated memo toward him, waiting.
She took one step forward. Then another.
The door clicked shut behind her, muting the world outside.