A.
Bitch.
The room around me started moving again—producers talking over each other, legal scrambling, someone swearing under their breath about liability—but I wasn’t in it anymore.
All I could see was Mallory’s face when I told her.
I finally checked my phone.
Missed call. Mallory.
Text. Mallory.
Another. Brewster.
I ignored them all.
Not because I didn’t care.
Because if I answered before I had the facts, I’d say something I couldn’t take back.
The anchor kept talking.
“…sources indicate the victim may have been targeted due to legal actions connected to recent investigative reporting?—”
I closed my eyes.
Of course, that was the hook they’d run with. The easy narrative. The one that put Mallory at the center of the blast radius whether she liked it or not.
The Auditor had done this before—used proximity, not guilt. Punished the circle.
This wasn’t about Colin’s sins.
This was about access to her. It was about proving a pointto her. It was about reminding Mallory that every person who stood between her and him was fair game.
I exhaled slowly, then turned to the nearest producer. “Get me everything. Raw footage. No commentary. I want timestamps, angles, who broke it first.”
“Flint—”
“Now.”
They moved.
Good.
I dialed Mallory as I walked.
She picked up on the first ring.
“Flint,” she said, already tight. “You’re seeing this.”
“Yes.”
A beat.
Then, quietly: “It’s Colin.”
“Yes.”
