“It makes you seem human.”
That lands. Antonia steps back. Julian holds his ground.
“Not human,” she hisses. “Broken.”
No one speaks. Silence eats at every crevice in the room. I wait for someone to take control. I’m surrounded by suits. By those in charge. They all stay silent.
More jeers from outside echo off the walls. I take a breath.
“This walk-through was to demonstrate progress. Compliance. The future,” I say, measured but exact. “That’s what we’re here for. Not PR. Shall we?”
I signal to the door. The men nod in unison, then walk out one by one. Julian follows with a single glance at Antonia. She stiffens.
“Join us when you feel ready,” he says.
She watches them leave. It’s then that I notice this isn’t the Antonia I’m used to.
Her red lips are missing. The blaze of hair is tied back, but strands fly away around her face. The jacket is tailored, but the shirt collar has creases as if it were worn before. And under her eyes is a hue of purple, evidence of staring at the ceiling at three in the morning.
Today, she didn’t plan a show. She planned to come here and survive.
“Take a minute,” I say. She glances over. “Take ten. This is your show.”
“Is it?”
The words come easy, but the flicker of uncertainty is one I’ve never seen.
“Yes. Opengate. This.” I tap the plans on the desk. “None of this would happen without you. Step outside today knowing that.”
“Give me a moment,” she says.
I step away to a corner, scrolling on my phone, looking at nothing. She rummages in her bag.
There’s a small mirror on the wall with a crack at its center. I watch out of the corner of my eye as she spreads deep crimson lipstick over her lips. Armor she didn’t have the strength to apply earlier today.
She turns to me. “Are you coming?”
I step up behind her, and we walk out into the chaos together.
Cameras hover in every direction. The questions fly as soon as we appear outside. I reach for her hand, then stop myself. She wouldn’t want that. Julian stands in front of the press, now congregated behind a metal fence, megaphone in hand.
The protesters have been moved outside the gates. “One question at a time,” Julian says, voice amplified.
We stepped outside expecting noise; we walk into theater. Caught between the crowd and the closed site office door, in front of a press conference we never agreed to.
“You’ve got this,” I say under my breath. “And I’m right here.”
“Antonia,” a reporter shouts. The rest hold their tongues. “In your opinion, was Daniel Longdown undeserving of treatment?”
She moves forward into the fray. Not beside Julian, but a little in front.
I stay where I am. Listening. Waiting. In case she needs support.
“No one deserves to have treatment withdrawn,” she says. “But when stocks are limited, someone must make the call.”
“How do you justify giving hope to a man who already lived twice as long?”
Antonia stiffens. If she mentions Daniel’s drug use, she risks blame shifting. If she doesn’t, they could spin it into an error.