"The lighting is terrible," Juno muttered, staring at the webcam setup we had jury-rigged using Stephen’s tablet and a ring light I’d found in my emergency kit. "It makes us look like hostages."
"Wearehostages," Stephen replied, not looking up from his screen. "Hostages of a corrupt market. The aesthetic fits the narrative."
"I don't do 'hostage chic,'" Juno countered, adjusting the angle of the light. "Rowan, sit up straighter. You look like you’re apologizing."
I straightened my spine, rolling my shoulders back. "I’m not apologizing. I’m waiting for the upload speeds."
"Ready," Stephen said. He hit a final key, and theAnchor Protocolrepository went live. It was now a public URL, a weapon loaded and aimed at the head of the industry. "The documents are hosted. The link is live."
"Then let’s give them the commercial," Juno said.
He stood up. He wasn't wearing the tuxedo from the Tate, and he wasn't wearing the casual clothes from the heat. He was wearing a simple black turtleneck and trousers. He looked stark. He looked undecorated.
He stood next to me.
"Mateo," I said. "Record."
Mateo stepped behind the camera setup. He didn't say 'action.' He just nodded. The red light blinked on.
The silence that fell over the room was absolute.
Juno looked directly into the lens. He didn't use his 'publicist voice,' that honeyed, melodic instrument he used to charm VPs. He used his real voice. The one I had heard whispering in the dark.
"For seven years," Juno began, "I have been the Managing Director ofThesis Consultancy. I have built careers. I have salvaged reputations. I have managed crises for the biggest names on the global stage. My billing rate is in the top one percent of the industry."
He paused. He let the resume sit there.
"And for seven years," he continued, "I have been an Omega."
I heard Stephen’s breath hitch, just slightly, from the corner of the room. It was the only sound.
"I have been on high-dose suppressants every single day of my professional life," Juno said. "Because the industry I work in believes that my biology dictates my competence. They believe an Omega cannot strategize. They believe we are liable to crack, to weep, to fail under pressure."
He leaned in, his amber eyes burning gold on the small screen.
"I am proving that lie wrong by existing. I have been running the table for a decade, and none of you knew. My biology didn't make me weak. The crushing weight of your bias made me expensive."
He stepped back, ceding the frame to me.
My turn.
To stand beside him. To bridge the gap between the Beta world of management and said biology.
"My name is Rowan Quill," I said. My voice was steady, anchored by the three men in the room. "I am a Beta. I pride myself on seeing everything. I track every decimal, every clause, every heartbeat of a production."
I looked at Juno, then back at the lens.
"And I worked alongside Juno for weeks. I engaged him for high-level crisis management. I trusted him with my life. And I didn't know."
I let that sink in. The shame of it, and the power of it.
"This should concern everyone," I said. "Because I have spent my career fighting the designation hierarchy, and even I fell for the lie that an Omega couldn't possibly be standing at the head of the boardroom table. The bias doesn't require bad faith. It just requires air to breathe."
I picked up the physical copy of theAnchor Protocol. It was heavy in my hands.
"This," I said, holding it up, "is theAnchor Protocol. It is free. It is public domain. It is a legal framework that voids any contract clause that monitors, suppresses, or commodifies biological data. It is enforceable in any jurisdiction that has ratified the Geneva Standards."
I dropped it on the table. Thethudwas satisfyingly heavy.
