The phone rang. It was a journalist I recognized, one from a trade publication that usually licked Vance’s boots.
"He’s resigning," the journalist told me, off the record. "Harliss. The chairman of the board. He’s citing 'health reasons.'"
"Heartbreaking," I deadpanned.
"Three more are following," the journalist continued. "And... Rowan? You didn't hear this from me. ButNeon Soundjust filed paperwork."
I froze. "Neon? That’s a Vance portfolio company. They manage his entire electronic division."
"They filed for Safe Harbor certification," the journalist said. "Under the Anchor Protocol."
I hung up the phone. I looked at the three men in the room.
"Neon Sound just applied for the Protocol," I said.
Stephen stopped typing. Juno lowered his tablet. Mateo turned from the window.
"The irony," Juno whispered, his eyes gleaming. "It’s delicious."
"It’s survival," Stephen said, his voice devoid of emotion as he pulled up the application queue. "They know the parent company is toxic. They’re trying to decouple. They’re using the tool we built to save themselves from the man who built them."
He clicked the file.
"Standard application," Stephen noted. "They’ve preemptively voided all monitoring clauses. They’re offering retroactive transparency on all NDAs."
"Do we accept?" Mateo asked.
I looked at the screen. These were the people who had enforced the rules. These were the people who had hired the scouts.
"We accept," I said. "The Protocol isn't a club for our friends. It’s a standard. If they meet the standard, they get the seal."
Stephen nodded. He moved the cursor.
APPROVED.
"He’s watching his own house burn down," Juno murmured, "and his children are using our ladders to get out."
Day six was quiet.
There were no sirens. No tactical teams kicking down the doors of Vance’s townhouse. The consumer protection case was a civil matter; it would grind on for months, maybe years,eating his fortune in legal fees until there was nothing left but a cautionary tale.
But he was done.
His board had fled. His accounts were inaccessible. His media cover was blown. TheAnchor Protocolwas being adopted by over a hundred distinct entities, creating a web of compliance that made his old model obsolete.
The injunction had failed. The smear campaign had backfired. The deepfake was exposed.
Julian Vance wasn't in prison. He was irrelevant.
"That's worse," Juno said, echoing my thoughts as we sat around the cabin table that evening. The rain had finally stopped, leaving the world outside scrubbed clean and smelling of wet pine. "For a man like him? Irrelevance is death."
We sat in the aftermath. The adrenaline that had sustained us for a week was gone, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and a strange, quiet peace.
The table was covered in the debris of victory. Printed certifications. Legal briefs. Empty takeout containers.
"It’s done," I said.
"Not finished," Stephen corrected, ever the lawyer. "The appeal. The settlement structure. The implementation."
