Tonight, the world sees. He did not say what they expected. He said what he had to say. The risks are vast. The consequences unimaginable. But the lie has ended.
And somewhere between that brokenness and his voice, love resurrects itself.
The screen blurs as Colin, furious, tries to redirect. Darun interrupts him again. His face glows: fierce, real, scarred.
I step back from the console, trembling. My tears drip onto the floor. I watch until the feed cuts to break. The studio goes dark. The silence after is deafening.
I lean against the wall. Libra in my arms, asleep now. The world beyond the window hums. The broken truth has been cast. The price to pay is immeasurable—but tonight, I believe we might yet survive the flames.
CHAPTER 54
DARUN
Ileave the studio without applause. The echo in the hallways hangs tight, empty. Lights buzz overhead. Cameras shut off. I don’t stop. I walk out into the blinding corridor, boots echoing on tile. My jaw is rigid. My heart is a hammer.
My comm unit hums immediately—alerts cascading. A storm. Death threats and support, disbelief and validation. The screen floods with messages:“You lied before, you lie again.”“Thank you for telling the truth.”“How could you dishonor Kanapa?”“You are a traitor.”“You are a hero now.”A thousand voices in my hand.
I scroll through them quietly. Some I delete. Some I keep. Each one scorches.
A soft chime: official announcement. The Alliance High Command statement: Darun Vakutan is stripped of rank, benefits, all commendations, effective immediately. The text blinks. My honors, erased. My titles vanish. The world draws a cross beside my name.
I stare at that line. Cold. No fear. Just resolve. Because if they can strip titles, but cannot strip the truth.
I tuck the comm into my pocket and step out into the street. The night air is sharp, smelling of ozone and rain-earned concrete. Neon glare bounces off wet pavement. I feel the city’s pulse: the hum of traffic, distant horns, hovercars gliding overhead.
I don’t go home. I go to her door again. My boots echo as I ascend the stairs. My heart pounds with every step. I stand before the door. The same door I knocked and was refused. The same door I left letters under. Now I just wait.
I raise my hand, knock once. Wood thuds. Silence.
My breath comes in slow gulps. My palms sweat. Images flicker in my mind: her face when she opened the door years ago, bright with faith; the way she glared at me after the interview; the child’s small hand in mine.
My voice is rough when I speak, barely louder than a whisper. “I told the truth.”
Inside, footsteps. The door opens. She stands there, eyes red, hair loose around her face. For weeks she refused—closed me out. Tonight, she opens.
My heart stutters. The threshold stands between us. A gutter of weak hallway light outlines her. The apartment behind is dim.
She says, softly, “Come inside.”
I swallow. I step across the threshold. The door clicks behind. I see the walls she built—the scattered drawings, the child’s shoes, the empty spaces. I smell lingering food, the faint hint of her shampoo. The air vibrates with tension.
Libra’s bed is empty. I wonder where she is. I try not to look yet. I don’t speak. I just stand.
Amy crosses the room. I see her stare at me, measuring. The distance between us is thick.
She whispers, “You destroyed everything I built.”
Her voice cracks. She wipes a tear. “But … you meant what you said.”
I nod, throat tight. My bones ache from standing still this long. My voice is low. “I did.”
She turns. She moves past me. She opens a window. Rain raps the glass. Wind sighs in. The apartment loosens a little.
She says, “I heard your message this morning.” The one I left on her desk. “I listened.” She steps to the desk, pulling the holo-device down. The glow flickers. The words I recorded hang in the air between us. The confession:“I chose wrong… I love you both.”
Tears glisten on her cheeks again. She doesn’t meet my eyes. She whispers, “I cried.”
I can’t stop the ache. I reach forward. My hand hovers near her back. “Amy?—”
