The morning air was crisp and electric, carrying a tension that felt heavier than usual. Sheila stood in front of the mirror in her apartment, straightening her blazer and adjusting the hem of her skirt for the third time. Her hair, normally a source of comfort, felt stiff and foreign under her fingers. Today wasn’t about appearances—it was about survival.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. A message from Atticus: I’ll meet you there. Stay sharp.
Sheila exhaled, letting the tension in her shoulders ease slightly. His presence, even through a text, was grounding. It reminded her that she wasn’t alone in this, that someone she trusted—and hated to admit it—cared enough to stand in the line of fire with her.
The ride to the press center was silent. Sheila kept her hands tight around her bag
