They’re talking about Jared.
“People sure do love a good villain story,” Grady mutters, his shoulders tense. “Never let facts get in the way of a satisfying narrative.”
“People see what they expect to see,” I say.
As we round the corner of a pallet of material, the break tent comes into full view. Workers spill from its open sides, faces flushed with emotion. At the center of the crowd stands Emily, her silver hair catching the afternoon sun, feet planted at shoulder width and unmovable as stone.
I suck in a breath. This isn’t idle gossip anymore. This is a reckoning. The pretense of this being a casual trek falls away, and without speaking, we quicken our pace toward the tent.
We enter through the back flap, slipping into the shadows where stacked chairs and extra coolers create a natural barrier. No one turns as we enter, every eye fixed on the makeshift screen at the front where a grainy video plays.
Emily stands beside the portable projector in the darkened tent, the tablet in her hand casting blue-white light over her face, highlighting the determined set of her jaw.
“This is the complete, unedited security footage from the Misty Pines water taxi,” she announces,cutting through the angry voices. “Not the fifteen-second clip circulating online, but the full record of what happened last Friday.”
The work crew is divided. To the left stands a cluster of workers with their arms folded, skepticism etched into their stances. One spits into a paper cup, the sound deliberately loud. To the right, others shift with discomfort, glancing between Emily and the screen with uncertainty painted across their expressions.
Grady’s shoulder presses against mine as more workers file in, compressing the available space.
“Quite the tribunal,” he whispers, nodding toward the front where two older men flank Emily, their faces impassive.
But my attention catches on a figure hunched in the far corner, hood pulled up despite the warmth of the tent. Jared. He curls forward on a metal folding chair, elbows braced on his knees, fingers laced tight.
Nathaniel and Blake stand beside him, Blake’s hand on his shoulder in silent support.
“That’s him, right? The Alpha who went after that poor Omega?” A worker near us nudges his companion, voice pitched to carry. “Don’t see why we need a movie screening to know what happened.”
Emily clicks something on her tablet, and the footage restarts from the beginning. This time, the volume comes through a small Bluetooth speaker, bringing with it the sounds of water slapping the hull and engines humming.
“Pay attention,” Emily instructs, her finger hovering over the screen. “And watch what actually happened before someone started filming with their phone.”
The security camera angle provides a wider view than the viral clips, with the entire boat visible from bow to stern. It’s clear there’s tension between the pair of Alphas and the couple, and it’s also clear Jared is trying to defuse the situation by pointing out the sights.
The two men lean toward a woman, their postures predatory, invading her space, and her companion steps between them.
Words become heated, though the audio quality makes specific phrases difficult to catch. The boat rocks with a larger wave, the camera tilting. The two aggressive men surge forward, and the Omega’s companion shoves back.
A scuffle erupts.
Jared leaves the wheel, moving to separate them. The boat pitches again, more violently. The woman staggers, losing her balance, and Jaredreaches out, not to attack her, but to stop her from tumbling overboard.
The woman’s companion interprets it differently, though, and his fist snaps into Jared’s face in a blur of misplaced rage.
A few sympathetic winces go around the tent, while my stomach clenches, acid rising in my throat.
Jared stumbles back to the wheel, his face a blood mask as he struggles to stop the water taxi from crashing. The security footage continues playing, showing what the viral clips never revealed as the two aggressive Alphas jump from the boat at the dock, disappearing into the crowd while security focuses on restraining Jared.
Under this new light, the deliberate mischaracterization becomes painfully obvious.
“That’s edited,” an older worker calls from the skeptical side of the room. “Security footage can be manipulated.”
Emily’s expression remains neutral. “This comes directly from the water taxi camera. Time-stamped and verified. The woman who supposedly needed protection has provided a statement confirming this account.”
“Why isn’t that statement public?” anotherworker calls out. “Convenient we’re only being told now.”
“Because she’s an Omega who went into unexpected Heat in public,” Emily replies, her response carrying a clear bite. “She requested privacy, which is her right.”
The two sides of the room regard each other, tension vibrating between them.