Brian sat in the cramped back room of the cultural center, the muffled hum of reporters bleeding through the thin walls. The podium outside was dressed with municipal flags, microphones lined up like tiny black cannons ready to fire. Emily would arrive any minute, step onto that stage, and read the carefully scripted words his team had loaded onto the teleprompter. On paper, it was damage control. In his gut, it felt like walking into enemy fire.
He stared at the half-empty glass of water in front of him, fingers so tight around it that he felt the pulse in his thumb. The social media firestorm had hit like a hurricane—Victor Sarvanes’s leaks, Sabina’s ghostwritten policies, Brian’s signature stamped across redevelopment plans that would gut entire neighborhoods, including Carol’s street.
