Page 198 of Reaper Said Mine

Dawson’s mouth flattens.

“That sounded stirring. It will look disastrous in a deposition.”

“Then don’t depose me.”

“Cute.”

“Accurate.”

He turns toward the wall display and swipes my image away, replacing it with live ratings data. “The public does not want a complex corporate sabotage packet at this stage. They want clarity. They want heroes, villains, stakes, and someone attractive enough to hold their attention while the map turns red.”

I stare at him.

Silence stretches.

Then a short laugh escapes me because the alternative involves property damage.

“You are talking about merchandising the beginning of a war.”

“I am talking about distribution strategy.”

“No, Dawson. You are talking about packaging terror so cleanly nobody has to taste the blood.”

His eyes go cold.

“You are suspended from live filing.”

Bellamy swears under his breath.

Dawson looks almost pleased to have said it. “Effective immediately. You will turn over all raw material and remain available for internal debrief. Any unauthorized release will be treated as breach of contract, theft of proprietary material, and reckless endangerment.”

The office goes very quiet.

Outside the glass walls, the newsroom moves in frantic streams of people and light. Stories continue being assembled. Graphics continue being rendered. Somewhere, a producer is probably choosing music for a war package that will make viewers feel sad enough to share but not sad enough to stop watching.

I pick up my bag.

Dawson’s gaze drops to it.

“Ursa.”

“No.”

“You are making a career-ending mistake.”

I meet his eyes. “You have mistaken my career for my purpose.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Do not get noble with me. The noble ones burn out fastest. You think truth saves people because you got lucky once with a childhood broadcast, but the galaxy did not change because you streamed Horus IV. It watched, cried, shared the footage, and found another tragedy to consume by morning.”

My grip tightens on the strap of my bag.

Bellamy moves before I do, anger flashing across his face. “Ted, shut your damn mouth.”

Dawson ignores him.

The edge of the strap bites into my palm. My mother’s face flashes through my memory—not as a symbol, not as footage, but as a woman with smoke in her hair and blood on her sleeve telling me to keep recording because someone had to see.

My voice comes out steady.