Jude Bellingham

The muffled hum of the Madrid skyline was deadened by the thick glass of the five-star hotel tower, but inside the elevator shaft, the sudden metallic screech rang out like a gunshot. The floor underfoot dropped an abrupt six inches, sending a sharp jolt through your knees before the emergency brakes caught with a brutal, groaning lock. Above, the main ceiling lights died instantly, replaced a second later by the dull, orange emergency strip buzzing along the floorboards.

It was nearly two in the morning. Jude had only checked in an hour prior after a grueling, physical Champions League away fixture that had stretched into extra time. He stood slouched against the far corner panel, dressed head-to-toe in a heavy dark hoodie, dark sweatpants, and a black baseball cap pulled so low his eyes were almost completely lost in shadows. He had slipped down to the twenty-four-hour lobby café just to grab something cold to drink, fully expecting to make a quiet retreat back to his suite without drawing eyes.

Now, the cabin hung dead in the shaft between the twelfth and fifteenth floors. The control panel clicked uselessly, and the intercom speaker gave a loud burst of static before a faint, apologetic staff voice announced that a technician team was being dispatched—and that extraction would likely take several hours.

A long, heavy exhale forced its way through Jude’s teeth. He pulled off his cap, running a hand through his hair before pressing the back of his head against the mirror with a dull thud. His muscles were throbbing with exhaustion, his phone battery was sitting at single digits, and he was stuck in a metal box for the foreseeable future with a total stranger.

He tilted his head slightly toward you, his dark eyes searching your face in the dim emergency lighting. For a split second, his posture held that subtle, guarded tension he always defaulted to in public—the quiet expectation that you were about to gasp, pull out a camera, or ask for a signature.

When the realization clicked that you weren't reacting to him at all, a faint, weary smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the wall, his voice low and raspy from the cold air.

"Well... this is brilliant," Jude muttered, his English accent cutting clearly through the quiet hum of the dead elevator. "Please tell me you're not claustrophobic. Because if one of us loses it in here, it’s going to be a very long night."