More suits.
That’s how you know the math changed.
This isn’t containment anymore.
This is escalation.
I step in on my own.
No one rushes me.
No one touches me.
That’s new.
That means they need something.
Badly.
A man I don’t recognize steps forward.
Tailored suit. Controlled posture. The kind of person used to rooms bending around him.
“Dr. London,” he says, “we have a developing international emergency.”
I meet his gaze.
Don’t move.
“Yes,” I say. “I told you.”
A few heads shift.
Not dismissive anymore.
Listening.
“We need to know,” he continues, “if you can prove that the list circulating is false.”
There it is.
The real question.
Not whether I’m guilty.
Whether I’m useful.
“I can do better,” I say.
The room stills.
“I can show you where it came from.”
That lands.
Murmurs ripple through the room—low, controlled, but real.
Eyes shift.
