The defense room felt like a cage made of mirrors.
Glass on three sides. Stark white lighting. Every surface reflected my image back at me—posture, pulse in my throat, the faint tremble I refused to let show. A space designed to expose.
I stood at the front, tablet in hand, forcing my voice into steel.
Four panelists watched from the long table.
At the center sat Dr. Emilio Valdez—half-moon glasses, composed mask, the same quiet scrutiny that once felt like guidance.
Now I knew it was dissection.
Behind the transparent partition, two men observed like predators circling the same prey.
Shawn sat motionless in a tailored black suit, shoulders rigid, eyes locked on me with a hunger so raw it felt like hands sliding up my thighs. His gaze dragged slowly down my body—over the curve of my
