I watched them lead him away, a king being escorted from his own dethroned court. I felt nothing. No triumph. No pity. Just the quiet, clean emptiness of a finished task. The emotional war was over; this was merely the formal surrender.
I turned, walked to my station in the wings, and sat down. The small space was a hive of activity, technicians checking audio levels, a producer barking orders, the low thrum of the waiting audience a constant pressure against the air. I put on my headset, the familiar weight a comforting anchor. The world outside my small monitor and the direct line to Julian Harrison ceased to exist.
The producer's voice buzzed in my ear.
*“Thirty seconds to air, team. Good luck, everyone.”*
I looked at the monitor. There was Julian, standing at his podium on the left
