I read it twice. Three times.
They didn't just manipulate footage. They strategized Trinity's destruction like a military campaign.
The document file contains the script they used to composite her text messages, complete with notes about which phrases to pull from which conversations. Thirty-seven separate exchanges, woven together into five damning fake conversations.
Authentic linguistic patterns maintained for believability, someone noted in the margins.
My chest feels tight. Orc rage is volcanic, slow build, then eruption. I'm at the slow build, magma rising.
Trinity fought back alone. Put herself on camera, vulnerable and furious, and challenged everyone to choose a side.
And I've been sitting in this room for six hours, strategizing.
Coward.
I grab my phone. It's 4:47 AM. The producers' control room runs twenty-four hours during active filming. I've seen the lights from my window, the rotating shifts of crew members who monitor contestant quarters forspontaneous authentic moments.
Which means Hammond is there right now, probably watching Trinity's video gain traction, calculating next moves.
I dress quickly. Traditional orcish clothes, not the awkward human suits they keep pushing. Leather vest over a linen shirt, belt with my family crest, the brass rings my mother forged for my coming-of-age.
If I'm burning bridges, I'm doing it as myself.
The hallways are empty at this hour, but cameras track my movement. Good. I want this recorded.
The control room occupies the compound's west wing, a bunker of monitors and equipment that looks like a war command center. Which I suppose it is. Just different weapons.
I don't knock.
The door crashes open under my palm. Three producers whip around, startled. Hammond sits center, coffee halfway to his mouth. The monitors behind him show sleeping contestants, empty hallways, and Trinity's video paused on a frame where she's looking directly at the camera.
Directly at me.
"Dongoran." Hammond sets his coffee down carefully. "It's five AM. If you need something, we can schedule?—"
"I have questions."
"We're busy?—"
I cross the room in three strides, plant both hands on his desk. Lean in close enough that he flinches.
"Who edited Trinity's confession footage?"
His eyes dart to the other producers. Woman on the left, Janine, I think, reaches for a phone.
"I asked you a question."
"That's proprietary production information," Hammond tries. "We can't discuss editorial processes with?—"
"With the bachelor? The centerpiece of your show? The orc you're using to rehab your network's image after the shitstorm of last season?"
Silence.
I pull the thumb drive from my pocket, hold it up.
"I have the original files. Time stamps. Email threads. The script you used to fake her text messages."
Hammond goes pale. Janine drops her phone.
