Chapter 145: The Narrative War
The silence after Camille said it was deafening.
"He's with me."
The words echoed. Bounced off the studio lights. Hung in the air like a challenge no one was quite sure how to answer.
And in the tension that followed, another tension loomed beneath it—older, colder, institutional.
Discrimination based on rank had always been an unspoken rule in studios like this. Who got the greenroom with real coffee. Who got mic'd first. Who got to sit center stage. But after the Masked Syndicate trial, things had begun to shift. Slowly, but not quietly. Mr. Leviathan—my mask, my words—had stood before a global audience and declared, "Can an event truly be called a lie, if you are perceiving it before your very eyes?" It had resonated. The world had changed, or at least, it was trying to.
But here? In this room? The old rules still lingered like smoke.
Darius blinked. Mira's expression tightened. I felt the shift—not just in the room, but in the undercurrent of everything: their expectations, their strategy, their narrative. I wasn't supposed to matter. I was supposed to be a prop. A side note. An afterthought.
And yet, here I was. Sitting tall. Wearing Camille's handiwork. Defying every inch of their production design, every unsaid rule about status and presence. The blazer shimmered slightly under the set lights, its gold embroidery catching every eye. Camille had made sure I'd be impossible to ignore.
"Interesting," Darius said smoothly, recovering. "Well, we certainly appreciate your... guest. Though, I have to say, it's unusual. Especially considering your history of solo interviews."
Camille didn't flinch. "This isn't a usual topic."
"No," Mira chimed in, her tone velvety but sharp. "It's not. Which is why it's even more shocking that you brought a random."