The third producer, an older man I've never bothered learning the name of, clears his throat. "Those are stolen production materials. If you obtained them through?—"
"Through what? Intimidation? Violence?" I bare my teeth in something that's not quite a smile. "Or through a crew member who was disgusted by what you did and wanted someone to know?"
I toss the drive onto Hammond's keyboard.
"You have two options. Option one: I take this to the media myself. Hold my own press conference. Explain in detail how you manufactured evidence to destroy a woman's reputation for ratings."
"You're under contract," Hammond snaps. "You can't just?—"
"Option two," I continue, voice dropping to the register I used for battlefield commands, "you call an emergency all-cast meeting. Right now. You play the original footage. You apologize publicly. And you explain to every contestant, everycrew member, and every camera in this building exactly what you did."
"That's career suicide," Janine whispers.
"For you. Yes."
I straighten, look at each of them in turn.
"Trinity went public alone because I was too busy being strategic. Too concerned with clan politics and public image to stand with her when it mattered."
My voice stays level. Cold.
"But I'm done strategizing. Done playing your games and following your scripts and pretending this is anything other than what it is—exploitation dressed up as entertainment."
"You'll lose everything," the older producer says. "Your clan will exile you. You'll be unhirable. No political future. No?—"
"I'll have the truth."
I turn toward the camera mounted in the corner, the one I know is recording.
"And I'll have the woman I love, if she's still willing to deal with a stubborn orc who took too long to figure out what mattered."
Direct address. The thing they've been coaching me to avoid—"never break the fourth wall, never acknowledge the cameras."
I look straight into the lens.
"Trinity. I'm sorry I made you fight alone. That ends now."
Then I pull the thumb drive from Hammond's desk, pocket it, and walk out.
Behind me, chaos erupts—shouted arguments, the clatter of someone's chair hitting the floor. I don't look back.
The hallway camera follows my exit. I wave at it.
Phase one complete.
Phase two requires a phone call I've been avoiding for six weeks.
My clan elder, Borgat Steelheart, answers on the fourth ring. His voice rumbles through the speaker like distant thunder.
"Korgan. I trust you're calling to inform me you've withdrawn from that ridiculous human spectacle."
I'm in my room now, door locked, phone on speaker while I pull up the contact information Tech Guy included with the files.
"Actually, I'm calling to inform you I'm staying. And publicly declaring my intention to court Trinity Lewis."
Silence. Then:
"You're aware this violates the courtship protocols. A public declaration without clan approval?—"
