His chest tightens. His jaw clenches. I see the steel in him adjusting—to vulnerability, to uncertainty. But his eyes blaze. “Then I will,” he says. No hesitation.
Relief spills through me. I step into his arms. The lights hum around us. The shadows retreat. He holds me and I feel half of every fear dissolve.
The next morning, I make him breakfast in the studio’s demo kitchen. He’s stiff in the new coat I lent him, pulling it off when the stove warms. The smell of eggs and garlic dances betweenus. We eat at a utility table under fluorescent lights. He hums. I laugh. Every clink of cutlery, every spill of coffee grounds, is vivid.
Later, I bring him through the broadcast prep areas. He touches consoles, dials, script racks. “So many voices behind this,” he says softly.
I answer, “It’s the choir you’ll join now.” He nods. We slip into the newsroom studio. The holostations flicker on, the screens alive. The teleprompters scroll. The air thickens.
Walking beside him, I pitch. “Your show. A special segment—‘Truth at the Crossroads.’ We present Kanapa’s fallout, but then we giveyouthe microphone. You speak—the audience hears the machine, not just the anchor. You answer, you reconcile, you reveal.”
His gaze clouds. “You’re asking me to stand in fire.”
I reach to his hand. “I’ll be beside you. You’re not alone.”
He nods, voice low: “Then I will.”
Later that day, the stage calls. We suit up—wire mics, cameras, lights. I watch him adjust his mic strap, hesitate, breathe. I stand behind the camera line. We switch it live. The hum is a roar in my chest. The lights dazzle. The audience feed opens.
I lean into the cue. “Tonight,” I begin, voice steady, “you will hear the story behind the headlines. And for the first time, you’ll hear Darun’s voice.”
I step aside. The stage is his. I watch his lips part, his throat working. The world holds its breath.
When it’s done, we walk off stage. The cameras dim, echoes fade. I step into his arms again. He holds me like I’m ground under his feet, like I’m gravity—but he knows I’m the same. He whispers: “Thank you.”
I whisper back: “Thankyou.”
Out in the corridor, his hand tightens around mine. We walk side by side. Sunlight leaks in through windows. The studio smells cleaner, new. The hum feels alive. I feel the weight of every name unsaid. But we’ve crossed a threshold. The light is waking.
CHAPTER 36
DARUN
The back rehearsal room behind the broadcast stage hums with borrowed life. Overhead fluorescents flicker faintly; a dull hush clings to cables, monitors in standby, and the faint smell of coffee and leftover late-night grease. Amy sits at the edge of a long table, cue cards spread before her, holo-screens dim. Libra lounges on the couch in the corner, legs curled, wearing her toy headset—tapping at her imaginary controls, eyes bright. She is part audience, part producer, all heart.
I shift my weight on unsteady legs, every muscle still awakening from disuse. My new civilian coat feels stiff, unfamiliar, sleeves bunched at my wrists. But I wear it anyway. It feels like armor turned gentle. I clear my throat, fingers brushing the surface of the cue cards, words I drafted late into the night with Amy’s hand against mine. The paper creases beneath my touch.
Amy watches me. Her eyes are soft—but full. “You don’t need to be polished,” she says in a low voice, leaning forward. “Just be you.”
I flick a glance at her. I taste the tension on my tongue. “That’s easy for you to say,” I growl, voice rough. “I’m used toclenching, hiding behind steel. I don’t know how to stand bare in public.”
She slides one card toward me:“I was buried by silence — I fought to speak the truth again.”She nods, softly, encouraging. “Package matters—so they’ll listen. But that doesn’t mean lose the edges.”
I lift the card, stare at the words. They burn. I swallow. My heartbeat drums. The room hums.
Then Libra chirps over her headset, “Five seconds to airtime!” She jumps up, nearly toppling off the couch. Amy and I share a tight look—relief, apprehension. She gives me a faint smile. My pulse jumps.
Amy hits a holo-switch. Projections flicker—test patterns, the title card“Darun’s Return”, cameras swiveling to life. The studio feeds light and glow backward into the room. Everything hums, trembles.
I stand. My boots echo on concrete. I pace a step forward, then stall. The rows of dark seats beyond the rehearsal glass stare like an empty void. Amy’s eyes flick to me, steady. I inhale the scent: dusty stage curtains, warmed metal, distant coffee.
“Good evening,” I begin, voice uneasy, cracking. “I’m Darun Vakutan.” I swallow. Silence. I feel the weight of my name. “Three years ago…”
My voice fails. I catch myself. Heat surges in my cheeks. The echo seems to mock me. I glance at Amy. She leans forward. Her presence steadies me. She gently says: “Say what you felt. Not what you polished.”
I draw breath. Try again. “Ifeltlost. I felt silence crushing me. I watched my world spin without me—without you. But I never stopped trying to speak truth again.” My voice shakes, but I hold the pitch.
In the blue glow, I see her face flicker—pride, fear, memory. And Libra’s eyes gleam across the room.
