1
SAYLOR
The clip had forty million views by the time I pressed play.
Three people ahead of me in the Bitstream line, my coffee order already decided, thumb hovering over a video I’d watched twice since rolling out of bed.
I was watching someone’s reaction video—a woman shaking her head in disbelief while a podcast clip played underneath. The audio featured a tech CEO’s voice, steady and unbothered, while the interviewer lobbed a softball about the latest round of layoffs across the industry. Every CEO in the country knew the script.
We’re deeply saddened. Our hearts go out. We’re committed to supporting affected employees through this transition.
He didn’t use the script.
“Look,” he said, and I could almost hear the interviewer’s posture change. “The truth no one wants to say is that if automation can do the work of a hundred people for a fraction of the cost, no company is going to keep paying a hundred salaries out of sentiment. Pretending we’re heartbroken about it doesn’t change basic accounting.”
The clip cut there. Every time. Fifteen seconds, stripped of whatever he’d said next, packaged for maximum damage. Ithad been on every feed and in every group chat for three days straight.
“That man needs a publicist or a muzzle,” I said. “Possibly both.”
I wasn’t talking to anyone. That was the problem. Bitstream was my coffee shop—ground floor of my building—and at 6:45 on a Tuesday, the place was never all that busy. I’d gotten comfortable enough to talk to my phone screen the way I talked to my TV. Out loud. Unfiltered. Full editorial confidence.
“Muzzle’s cheaper.”
The voice came from directly behind me. Low, unhurried, carrying a warmth that didn’t match the words.
My shoulders pulled tight before I turned around. When I did, the first thing I registered was the tattoos. Dark, intricate ink covering both arms from wrist to shoulder, vanishing under the sleeves of a plain black T-shirt that stretched across a chest broad enough to block out the menu board. Full beard, neatly kept. Dark hair, slightly pushed back.
He was tall enough that I had to tip my chin up to find his eyes. When I did, the second thing I registered was that he was looking at me with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and genuine interest.
My face went hot. “I wasn’t?—”
“You were.” The corners of his mouth moved. Not quite a grin. Just enough. “A publicist or a muzzle. Those were the options.”
“I didn’t realize anyone was behind me.”
“I got that.”
Someone behind him cleared their throat. Neither of us moved. He stood with his hands loose at his sides, still in a way that said he was used to the room adjusting to him, not the other way around.
I faced front and ordered my usual. When I stepped to the pickup counter, he should’ve stayed in line to place his own order. End of interaction. But he stepped up beside me instead, close enough that I could see the edges of an ornate design across his chest, just visible above his collar. Wings, maybe. Or something more intricate. My eyes tracked the lines before I could stop them.
“So what would you do?” he asked.
“What?”
“If you were his publicist. Not his muzzle. What’s the move?”
I looked at him. The amusement was still there, but underneath it, something sharper had surfaced. Real curiosity.
“His problem isn’t what he said,” I told him. “His problem is that fifteen seconds is all anyone’s seen. A clip that short is doing the storytelling for him. If you let someone else’s edit define your narrative, you’ve already lost.”
“And if what he said is what he actually believes?”
“Then you don’t make him walk it back. PR 101—you never put a client in front of a camera to say something they don’t mean. Audiences can always tell.” I stopped. Work voice. Coffee shop. Stranger. “Sorry. Occupational hazard.”
“Don’t stop.” His eyes hadn’t moved from my face. “What would you actually do?”
“Find the piece of the truth that the clip cut out. There’s always one. And you let that do the work.”
