I looked at the comments.
@Fan1: Policy king Cal strikes again. Respect the engineer.
@RiotTheoryFan: Okay so we respect the engineer's privacy. Copy that.
@BrittanyT: If they want privacy, we give them privacy. That’s the Riot way.
"What are you doing?" I whispered to the empty room. "Why are you doing this?"
It didn't make sense. The industry standard was to leverage everything. If an Omega ran, you spun it as a tragedy or a scandal. You used the mystery to sell tickets. You didn't establish "quiet zones" and block fans who asked questions.
Unless they meant it.
We want to learn, not take.
I pulled up the metadata on the SoundCloud file. Habit. I wanted to see the bitrate, the encoder.
I froze.
The file metadata usually contained location tags, upload IP, basic origin info.
This file was scrubbed clean.
Encoder:Riot_Secure_Server_v4
Location:[REDACTED/ROUTED_NULL]
Comment:Z_Safe_Protocol
Euan.
The quiet one. The systems brain. He had routed the upload through a dead-end server so no one could tracethemto findme. He had tagged the file metadata withZ_Safe_Protocol.
He was protecting me even while I was hiding from him.
I fell back onto the pillows, the laptop warm on my stomach. The tears came sudden and hot, stinging my eyes. Not fear tears. Confusion tears. Relief tears. The overwhelming, terrifying sensation of having my reality glitched.
I had spent ten years building a fortress. I had triply-locked doors and white noise machines and exit strategies. I had suppressants that cost a fortune and a contract rulebook that kept everyone at arm's length.
And in less than twenty-four hours, three Alphas and a Beta had looked at my fortress, nodded respectfully, and started patrolling the perimeter to make sure no one else got in.
I grabbed my phone. Navigation was difficult through the blur of tears.
I went to my block list.
Rowan Quill.Unblock.
The action felt huge. Irrevocable.
I stared at her contact name. Manager. The woman who had deleted wellness clauses like they were trash.
I couldn't just say "I'm sorry." Sorry was weak. Sorry was personal.
I needed to be professional. I needed to be the engineer who fixed the board, not the Omega who panicked.
I typed, deleted, retyped.
The booth on the bus.
