Evening falls. Rooms darken. Lamps glow soft. Darun returns with groceries and a tired smile. The scent of bread, citrus, new possibilities leans in. I hug him. His arms hold me, brief anchor. We cook dinner together — chopping, stirring, arguing over salt — and the routine feels like a prayer.
Afterwards, we sit on the balcony. Night is deep and alive. City lights flicker like constellations made by street grids. He places hand on mine. The breeze carries faint aromas — traffic, blossoming night flowers, distant rain. He breathes slowly.
“Tomorrow,” he says quietly, “we open the doors.” His voice trembles just so. “I’m ready.”
My throat cracks. The secret catches. I say, “Me too.” My lips tremble. I haven't told him yet—but at sunrise, I will.
We sit side by side. The stars hang outside. The city hums beneath. The secret lingers between arms, breath, heartbeats. Tomorrow, everything changes. And I believe I’ll have the courage to say what I’ve held silent for so long.
CHAPTER 43
DARUN
The studio air is sterile and electric. It hums with hidden currents—power lines, cable signals, breathing expectations. I walk through the backstage corridors, each step echoing on concrete and metal. The scent of cleaning agents and hot equipment – warmed rigging fluid, solder fumes – presses against my nostrils. My claws flex inside my gloves. The muscles in my forearms tremble with tension. Dowron’s warning is a shadow in my mind, whispering:One word from you can fracture an empire. Use your leverage with care.I try to shove it aside, but it veils everything I touch.
The interview questions Amy laid out lie open on a holo-desk under dim light: “What was your last moment before the silence?” “How do we rebuild trust after betrayal?” “What do you want your legacy to be?” I paced them all in memory last night—but now, before the lights, they feel brittle, tentative. Dowron’s words crowd them: “Expose too much, and the war fractures. Worlds secede. Billions may die.” The weight stings behind my ribs.
Amy appears in the doorway. She approaches behind me, cautious. Her fingers trace the collar of my jacket, smoothing a wrinkle. The electricity of her touch shoots along my spine. Thescent of her – jasmine, faint smoke, warmth – anchors me to the ground. I turn—meet her eyes. Steady. She whispers, “We’re ready.” Her voice is low, soft, but it trembles. I nod. My jaw clenches. “We’re ready,” I repeat, layering strength over my own trembling.
She steps back. The stage area hums alive: lights flick on one by one, cables hiss with load, camera servos swivel. The red “LIVE” indicator beside the glass control wall pulses. My blood quickens. I feel sweat bead at my brow. The studio smells: metal rails, warmed carpets, dust from footfalls, and the electric tang of current surging through circuits.
In my pocket, I feel a folded scrap of paper. Libra’s drawing. “Good luck, Darun!” Crayon strokes, childish, hopeful. My fingers tighten around it. My heart twists. A steel echo says: reveal too much, and we lose them both. The drawing pulses in my palm.
Amy’s voice over earpiece:Are you good?
I swallow hard. “Yes,” I whisper, though part of me screams.
She steps aside. The curtain parts. Light floods me. The audience beyond the cameras becomes a blur of shapes and expectation. I stride forward. My boots hit the stage floor. The cameras swivel. The prompters display words behind Amy. The air tastes like fear and promise.
I take my spot, align with marks on the floor. The light warms my face. The hum of equipment pulses. The microphones are live. Amy, at her anchor desk, nods. Her eyes lock onto mine. She begins.
“Good evening. Tonight, you will hear what has been silent too long… from his voice.” Her tone is clear. I inhale. The world constricts to my breath, the voices behind lenses, the circuits in the floor.
She asks the first question. I open my mouth. My voice is raw, brittle. But it carries. I describe my fall into silence, how myname erased me. I tell of days in darkness—of the void, of the screams I carried in my mind.
Then she transitions, “Let’s talk about responsibility, reconnecting worlds.” She leans slightly forward. I feel the edge of truth edging me onward. But Dowron’s warning flickers again in my mind. I pause mid-sentence. My tongue knots.
A small voice inside me cries:He said not to crush worlds. He said stability must be managed.But my soul rages:Duty is not silence.
I draw breath. I steel myself. I speak. The ambush, the death of innocents, my part in the mutiny. The betrayal, the cost. I let sorrow flow into sound. The words tremble, raw, but I refuse to quiet them.
A camera zooms in. The lens captures me. I feel its glass—cold, indifferent, witness. Amy’s eyes flicker, unwavering.
I answer her questions — some honesty, some limits, some omissions I cannot yet afford. The crowd behind the cameras leans in. The world will hear. But the secret—that child, that bond, that lineage I’ve hidden—still lingers unspoken between us.
When the segment ends, the studio stills. Applause echoes, the hum of hidden circuits. The red “LIVE” light dims. Cameras shutter.
I step off stage. Amy meets me. Her face is pale, but determined. She catches me beneath each eye. “You were real,” she says.
I exhale a lungful. “I tried.” My voice rough. The secret presses behind my ribs.
Backstage, the corridor feels cold now. I feel raw, exposed. Amy’s hand slips in mine. We walk toward the exit. The weight of cameras and expectation behind us. The city beyond blinks in evening lights.
When I reach the door to the street, I pause. The world outside hums. Traffic, lights, distant voices. This is what I risked silence to reclaim. I step out, breathing air that feels new and dangerous.
Amy beside me, I lift Libra’s drawing from my pocket. I fold it carefully, slip it into my coat. My heart thrums. The interview is done—but everything has changed. And the secret still waits, touching the edges of tonight.
I pull Amy close. She presses her head to my shoulder. The city hum, wind on skin, distant lights flickering. In that moment, I vow: after tomorrow, light will fall on all secrets. I will carry nothing more in shadow but what must be born aloud.
