When the morning came, we were cleaning incense off your vinyl shelf because we lost track of time again, Laughing with my feet in your lap Like you were my closest friend; how'd we end up on the floor anyway? You say, "Your roommate's cheap-ass screw-top rosé, that's how" I see you every day now.

And I chose you, The one I was dancin' with In New York, no shoes. I looked up at the sky, and it was The burgundy on my T-shirt when you splashed your wine into me And how the blood rushed into my cheeks, so scarlet; it was The mark you saw on my collarbone, the rust that grew between telephones.

Someone from the FBI makes contact with her, and they identify themselves. Someone by the name of Glen Scot is not a name that she is acquainted with, but she deduces from his tone (which is far too familiar to her) that she should be. His style is too self-important for his position, and he seems to have too much familiarity with her.

Betty assumed she had been throwing herself at the mercy of the cosmos over the last few days. Accept things for what they are rather than continuing to wonder why some aspects of life are the way they are. At least, that is how she approaches things whenever the FBI gets in touch with her.

When she asks who that is and internally questions why that name fills her with a fear she's rarely experienced, Glen's voice changes to arrogant, as if she's being impossible, and he says he'll send her the case files. He uses a tone that is probably gentle for him and tells her that TBK is back on the map. He does this in a manner that is perhaps gentle for him.

He terminates the call before she can ask any more inquiries.

Betty is attempting to breathe as she continues to sit, the phone still in her grasp, even though the connection is dead. She finds that her hands are strangely curling in on themselves, and she can feel the pressure of her short nails pressing into the flesh of her palms.

Her breathing is still short; she is choking gasps, and she has no idea why this is happening. She isn't even acquainted with the word but hearing it causes her to experience a sensation similar to her heart sinking into her stomach, and she chills in response to the icy terror filling her within.

TBK, TBK, and TBK again.

The case files provide a lot of information. Very detailed. The Killer of the Garbage Bags. Because he usually dismembers his victims and puts their body parts in garbage bags, he earned this name because of his behavior.

Everything is terrible, every event is horrible and horrifying, yet this is... unique. Betty had gone through many case files involving various victims and offenses. Because of this, she feels a tightening in her stomach and a trembling all over her body.

It takes Jughead roughly four seconds to register what has happened. She reassured him that she was alright and that she was only feeling terrible for the victims but that she would be well.

They stay up till four in the morning doing research and plotting, and all the while, Betty can feel herself becoming more constricted, but she has no idea why this is happening.

Her chest tightens to the point that she can feel her heart pounding throughout her whole body, and she finds herself breathing in short, shallow breaths.

"Betty," Jughead whispers, but Betty is gone; she has been transported out of her body and into a small hole. Her fingers are bloody from trying to escape the spot, and she is sweating profusely. She is so hungry that she will pass out soon and terrified that she wishes she could die here.

"Nooooo," she groans repeatedly.

He guides her to the little bed, and she doesn't fight much since she's honestly not sure she could even recall her name.

She can catch fleeting glimpses of Jughead's eyes on hers, a flash of blue now and then, but the world is filled with this terrible, cold horror, and she can't get out. She hears her name faintly, as if through a fog. She can catch fleeting glances of Jughead's eyes on hers.

The pressure that is being applied to her chest and tummy is what clears up the confusion. It is comforting and sturdy, and although it does not restrict her movement, it does hold her firmly. She can feel someone's heart beating against her back when the fog lifts a little further.

Then she heard the voice trying to comfort her.

The voice is the single most helpful component.

"It's alright," it says. "I'm here; don't worry about it. We'll work out a solution to this."

And, very surprisingly, she believes him.

The fog is beginning to lift ever so gradually as time goes on. Her heartbeat gradually slows down, and she starts to establish a pattern in her breathing.

She has no idea how long it lasts, but when it is done, she is sitting in Jughead's arms with his hands running through her hair and her face resting on top of his chest where his heart is beating.

He has a courageous spirit. It's not a dream; it's something she can hold onto and feel relieved by when the panic episode subsides.