And I vow, no more lies. No more silence. Let the world see exactly who I am. Let them know the cost of truth.
CHAPTER 53
AMY
The apartment is silent except for the hum of the holonet. I perch on the edge of the sofa, remote trembling in my hand. My breath catches as I flip through channels, not wanting to see, yet desperate to. There—there he is. Darun. Across from Colin. Live. The kind of moment we rehearsed in nightmares.
The holoscreen glows, casting flickering light across my face. I smell the stale coffee I left hours ago, the faint scent of yesterday’s dinner in the air. My throat tastes bitter. My heart hammers.
Colin leans forward in his anchor seat, polished, smug. His smile is radiant with expectation. I hear his voice sharper than honey.
“Darun Vakutan,” Colin says, voice broadcast loud, “tonight you stand before the Alliance—and the galaxy. Tell us:Kanapa. Hero or monster? Hero or hero?” He cocks an eyebrow as though daring him to slip.
The camera cuts to Darun. His face is lit stark, eyes burning in the glare. The lines of his jaw are tight. I feel the heat of that glare all the way across the miles. I place my hand over my mouth to keep from gasping.
He inhales, slow. I can see each fraction of his chest rising. The studio behind him is sterile. But in his eyes, there is war.
“Kanapa,” he says, voice low, deliberate. “Kanapa was a brutal racist. He tried to execute civilians. I stopped him.” His words land like gunfire. “Amy Matthews helped me. And we paid for it.” The names taste like steel.
My breath stutters. The room shifts. The walls of the apartment vibrate with that truth. I feel cold dread, electric grief. My knees weaken.
Behind Darun’s face, I see color drain from Colin’s. The anchor staggers, sputters. Microphones echo. The studio erupts—shouts, camera flashes, background commotion. The audience visible behind Colin’s backdrop fractures into shocked faces, stunned hosts. The live feed pulses with chaos.
I stay motionless. My eyes burn. Tears that have been building surge. The ice around my heart cracks. A slow fracture.
My fingers go slack on the remote. The glass panel of the table trembles as I pound a fist. When I speak, my voice is raw: “Yes. Yes. He said it.”
I rise unsteadily, pace the room. The echo of his words keeps playing in my head:brutal racist … execute civilians … we paid for it.
I feel him out there. In that light. That truth tearing across waves, across lies. I want to stand, to shout, to repudiate every lie that’s been written about him. To tell them he is more and less and human.
Colin, recovered, sputters: “Wait—if you say that—if you go this route—why, sir, would anyone believe in the system after this? You cast history as villain. You drag names through mud?—”
Darun interrupts, voice strong, “Because the system demands we face what it built, not what it hides.” He leans forward, gaze piercing. The feed splits. Screens behind him flashimages—Kanapa in uniform, civilians, scars. He names dates, orders, actions. The images shock. The voices hush.
I clutch a pillow to my chest. My body trembles. My ears ring with every word, every silence.
Then Darun says: “People died. I bear that. But silence costs just as much.” His lips press into a line. The camera holds him in that moment: vulnerable, relentless.
In my kitchen, I hear my phone ping—tweets, alerts, tremors in the public mind. The labels, the commentary, the outrage—all pouring fast. I wish I could scream into the holo network, tear through the lies too.
Libra calls from her room. “Mommy?” Her small voice, trembling. I step toward the door. My legs shake. I close my eyes for a fraction—no, I don’t—then I don’t.
I step to the door frame. I want to tell her: Yes, Daddy spoke truth. Yes, we will face what must be faced. But I only manage: “Yes, sweetheart.”
My voice cracks. Behind the door, I hear her small footsteps. She peeks in. I kneel, pull her close. Her cheek presses to mine. She smells of clean clothes, lavender, childhood.
I murmur in her ear: “He’s telling the truth now.”
She doesn’t respond. She just holds me. My tears fall into her hair.
On screen, Colin recoils. The commentators scramble. The debate breaks out. The Alliance staff behind Colin gape. The audience far away pulses with shock. But Darun holds firm. The camera pulls back on him as he stands, shoulders squared.
I rise fully. I feel anger, pride, fear, love. I storm toward the holo console. I slam my fist on the glass. The feed flickers. A guard in Colin’s studio pans, shouting.
I speak aloud though he cannot hear me: “I believe you.”
In the hush, I feel the ice in my heart break a little further. I feel possibility crawl into that breach. The fracturing is painful. But required.
