I imagine him standing outside my door, maybe tomorrow, holding words, maybe hope. I ache for it, both dread and longing knotted in me. I listen to silence. Outside, wind rattles window edges. Somewhere a siren wails. The city hums.
In the quiet, I whisper: “He meant it. I must believe he meant it.” But even as I say it, fear curls in my chest: can truth rebuild what fear destroyed?
Libra tosses in her sleep in the next room. Her small breathing hums. I push off the blankets, rise, move to her door. I stand in the hallway, watching her curl under covers, hair loose, small feet tangled. The weight of what I withheld, what I told, what remains — all reflect in her slumbering innocence.
I step back, close the door softly. The apartment is dark again, shadows gathering. But I’ve heard his message. The lie is unmasked. The world hisses with fallout. And I, broken and raw, resolve I will not yet vanish. I will claim the truth. Someday he will hear I believed him. Someday.
But tonight, I let tears fall quietly in the dark. Publicenemyis what they’ve made me. I wear the label. But I keep the embers of love, even in ash.
CHAPTER 52
DARUN
My comm unit vibrates in the dim hotel room—screen glowing with a single name:Colin Romeo. My thumb hovers over “Ignore.” I want to let it disappear into my silence. But the name pulses on the display, a grin in letters. I slide to the corner table and pick it up, voice rough as gravel.
“Colin,” I say.
His tone crackles through the line: smooth, practiced, wry. “Darun Vakutan. Heard you made a curious turn at the anchor desk.” There’s amusement in his voice. “Want to set the record straight? On my show? We talk heroes, lies, truth. You tell the Alliance what a real hero looks like.”
My heart hammers. The room falls inward. One breath late, I nearly press “Decline.” My fingers tremble. But something—anger, resolve, shame—holds me back.
“I’ll think about it,” I lie, voice thick.
He laughs. “Thinking is good. But time’s short, Darun. People want clarity now.” The line hums with possibility. “Call me when you’re ready.”
He clicks off and the screen darkens again. I sit in heavy silence. The recording loops in my head:hero, patriot. Thebetrayal. Amy’s stare at the desk. Libra’s small face. Every door I struck. Every lie I masked.
I rise. My boots hit the floor hard. I pace. Outside the window, neon lights blur, streetcars hum, night traffic thrums. The city feels keen, alive, impatient.
My gaze falls to the holo-screen on the desk. I flick through old recordings. One in particular stabs me: Amy, standing before command staff, confronting Kanapa with steely voice and trembling hands. The scene is burned in memory: her scarf catching soft light, her voice unwavering though she quivers. She doesn't back down. It's her backbone, her fire. I watch her lips part.“This ends tonight.”The sound fractures in my bones.
I shut off the holo. Sweat beads along my jaw. My fingers clench into fists. I breathe slow, then lean low over the comm. My voice harsh: “Colin.”
“Back so fast? Ready to be real?” His voice is curious, electric.
A beat.
“I’ll do it,” I say.
He cackles, surprise betraying delight. “You’ll praise Kanapa live, yeah?” he jabs.
Silence. The moment stretches.
I finally exhale. “You’ll see,” I answer. “You all will see.”
He chuckles again. “That’s the spirit. I’ll send details.” He cuts the line.
I sit back, staring at the blank screen. The weight of my voice looms. I’m dangling before cliffs—truth vs ruin.
Libra’s drawing lies folded in my coat. I pull it out, press it to my heart. I taste salt in my mouth. I whisper, “She deserves truth, no matter the cost.”
I slash the comm across the table, panel flashing. The ripple of light across the wood is savage.
Morning comes too soon. I dress in clean uniform, brushing old dust off. My claws fade beneath sleeves. I leave the hotel, feeling the city’s edge sharpen around me.
Somewhere out there, Amy will see this. Maybe she watches the news, maybe she sits in silence. The lines we bent, the lies I told—they collapse now under fire.
I walk toward the studio—each footstep, a decision. I step into traffic hum, neon wash, storm of watchers waiting.
