The smoke from a cooling generator curled past the tinted window of the production van. Inside, it was cold, the air humming with the low thrum of electronics. Caspian Hawthorne stared at the central monitor, his face a mask cast in the blue-white light.
On the screen, Lyra was singing. A replay of the finale’s raw feed, stripped of the network’s glossy graphics. Her voice, clear and sharp, filled the small space. The song was called “My Name.” It was a declaration. An act of severance. Each note was a piece of herself she was reclaiming from the wreckage he had made of their life.
He had watched it live, but the replay was worse. Without the shock, there was only the cold, clear truth of it. The weight of his cruelty pressed down, a physical ache in his chest. He saw not the woman he had discarded, but the woman he had never truly known. Resilient. Unbreakable.
This wasn’t for revenge. He had forfeited the right to anything so clean. This was restitution. A desperate, ugly balancing of the scales.
A burner phone vibrated on the console beside him. He glanced at the screen. A single, encrypted message from the producer Eleanora Hawthorne had leaned on.
Segment is locked. We are greenlit.
Caspian drew a steadying breath. It was happening. The machinery was in motion, grinding forward with an unstoppable momentum he himself had set.
He turned to Marcus Thorne, the head of security for Hawthorne Industries, who sat silently in the adjacent chair. “Status?”
“Officers are in position at all exits,” Thorne reported, his voice low and professional. “Thermal confirms. The package was received by the journalist two minutes ago. She’s confirmed receipt and is standing by.”
The package. `The Reckoning`. The digital file containing everything: Maria’s affidavit, the financial records of `The Finch Foundation`, the video of Isolde coaching her associate for the faked attack. Deployed.
Caspian picked up his personal phone, the one that tied him to his real life. He scrolled to his grandmother’s contact. His fingers typed a short, coded message.
The stage is set.
He hit send. The plan was no longer a theory. It was active. It was irreversible. He dropped the burner phone into a Faraday bag, its purpose served. He was no longer an investigator, no longer a husband, no longer a fool blinded by a savior complex.
He was the operational commander of a demolition.
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