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."
They pivoted. Tried to disarm with charm again. Asked about Camille's creative inspiration. Her time abroad. Her earlier designs that bore a 'striking resemblance' to the Syndicate's masks.
Camille answered cleanly, if curtly. "Design trends echo. Influence spreads. I'm not responsible for how someone uses a look."
Darius smiled like he smelled blood. "But surely you understand how it looks. The curves, the flares, the angular symmetry—it's so distinctively you."
Camille tilted her head. "You just said I'm distinct. So wouldn't it be odd for someone else to copy me without consequences?"
"Unless," Mira said, leaning in, "they didn't copy you at all. Unless you were part of it."
There it was.
Camille didn't even blink. "I'm not involved with the Masked Syndicate."
Her voice was calm. Firm. Not defensive—but definitive. Like a gavel falling in court.
And yet the questions kept coming.
They poked. Prodded. Threw hypotheticals like darts, hoping one would stick. Hoping she'd crack, or slip, or fumble. Every word they threw was laced with implication. Every smile came with an undercut.
But she didn't crack. Didn't slip. Didn't fumble.
Still, I could feel the tide turning—not in our favor. The audience wouldn't care about logic. They cared about spectacle. They were here for the implication. The drama. And the more Camille denied, the more they'd convince themselves she had something to hide.
This wasn't about truth. It was about story.
And they controlled the frame.
Unless I flipped the lens.
I watched them closely. Every twitch. Every breath. Mira had a tell—when she was agitated, she tapped her ring finger against her leg beneath the table. Darius scratched his neck twice before asking questions that were clearly rehearsed. His smile tightened every time Camille refused to break.
They were pros.
But so was I.
I activated Observation—quietly, subtly. My senses sharpened. Their microexpressions lit up like billboards.
Something was off.
Darius kept glancing down. Not at cue cards. Not at a teleprompter. Lower. Much lower.
And his thumb? It rubbed a spot on his ring finger where there was no ring. Over and over. Like a habit. Like a regret.
Odd.
My eyes narrowed slightly, piecing together the rhythm. The hesitations. The guilt. The performative smiles that didn't reach his eyes. I searched up Darius on the Database.
A realization stirred.
They wanted a story? They were about to get one.
"You know," I said, cutting into their next question, "I find it fascinating. This idea that someone's worth is tied to their rank."
Darius glanced at me, clearly annoyed. "Excuse me?"
"You asked why Camille brought me. He's not even A-Rank, you said. Like that's supposed to mean something."
Camille shifted slightly. Mira raised an eyebrow.
"I just think it's funny," I continued. "Considering the Syndicate's ranks fluctuate constantly. And yet they're all arguably at the peak of their careers ."
Mira gave a clipped smile. "Well, they're criminals. Not exactly something to aspire to."
"Careful now, they were declared not guilty. You'd be doing defamation." I replied. "Not to mention that during the trial, when Mr. Leviathan—" I paused, letting the name carry weight. My name. "—testified, he said something that stuck with a lot of people. Ranks don't define capability. Or worth. Especially not when the people assigning those ranks have their own agendas."
That got a reaction. Mira's fingers stopped tapping. Darius's jaw tensed.
I leaned forward slightly. "Funny how, even after all that, people still look at someone below A-Rank like they're disposable. Like they couldn't possibly have anything to offer."
"It's about trust," Darius said stiffly. "People need standards."
"People need results," I said. "And they need fairness. You'd think after everything—the revelations about the Syndicate, the trials, the betrayals—we'd stop pretending the old hierarchy makes sense."
Darius laughed. "Truth? From someone who hides behind Camille's shoulder?"
"Oh, I'm not the one hiding," I said.
My voice was calm. Easy. Every word slow, deliberate. Like a pianist lifting their hands before the crescendo.
And then I turned fully to Darius.
"In fact, I'd like to ask you something."
He froze.
"How's your wife, Darius?"
Silence.
The kind that smothers sound. That makes time slow.
Darius blinked. Mira stiffened.
"Excuse me?" he said.
"Livia, right?" I said, voice casual. "Lovely woman. Publicly supportive. Very active on social media. Posts a lot about her husband. You guys married a couple years ago, very cute wedding pictures I might add."
He stared at me. His jaw tightened.
"So why," I said, smile sharp, "is it that you are cheating on her with Mira?"
His face paled.
Mira's mouth opened. Her hand moved to her earpiece.
Camille exhaled slowly. A soft smirk played at her lips.
"You want to talk about trust, Darius?" I asked. "Because I doubt you and Mira conveniently wear the same the same cologne, not to mention that your wedding ring is off your hand."
Silence.
A few of the backstage crew stopped moving. One cameraman's eyebrows shot up. The sound technician lowered her clipboard.
The game had changed.