They told us the rubble would let you hear the world differently — every creak was an accusation, every siren a chorus. The town had teeth now; it bit back when provoked. We’d lit a match and the flame had found oil.
Our plan was ugly and surgical: bait Calloway into a place where his shadow would show in the light. We’d stage a “victory” press drop—Orla would publicly withdraw a portion of her claims in exchange for immediate restitution (the house, seed capital). The staged concession would make those who’d bought silence think the town wanted closure; only it was bait. The withdrawal would be conditional and tiny; the real prize was a deposition she’d give under oath, in public, where any slip could be recorded, vetted, and used.
Julian’s camp bit hard—they wanted their headline that
