Nora leans away from her left arm, grimacing in pain. She swears, squeezes her eyes shut, and tries to reply to Cherry's reassurances. The doctor pads the splints—moving gently and carefully—explaining to her that she would heal "in no time."

Focusing on Nora's pain helps with mine. I had scraped my leg, thigh to shin. Sprained an ankle and bruised my knees. All to protect my head and shoulders from suffering the impact. It was the opposite with Nora.

Julie, who's cleaning my wound, swats my hand away again when I try to touch the gauze.

Among other reasons, I believe Nora is having a worse time because she's been in this house before.

I had spent years of my life watching the ONA as if I was peering out through my window at the sky, trying to make constellations out of stars. Now, here I was, sitting in what clearly appeared to be their main office.

It was a modern mansion, with their office in one wing and their living quarters in another. I knew Martin lived close to the countryside but I never knew his exact address. I'm overwhelmed. The screens with poll data, strategies, and updates are still running. I can hear some of the campaign staff working away in the other wing.

But all of it drains away when Martin walks back into the room, this time with Emir.

"So, I have news," Martin says. We all turn towards him. "That device someone snagged under your hood is way too sophisticated for it to not be..."

"Wayne?" I complete his sentence when he meets my eyes. He nods. I hear Julie mutter something too inappropriate to repeat under her breath.

Cherry walks towards the center of the room where Emir comes to stand. "Where were you? Have you been briefed on the Orion situation?" 

"Yeah, Martin told me. Sorry, I deviated from my schedule for today. An old client of mine had reached out. She was being evicted," He explains.

I pinch my lips together. "Was being"—How nice of him. Doesn't he get tired of keeping this up?

I feel Julie shift, and I quickly thank her for her help as she gets up.

"Should we take this to the public?" I hear Emir say. 

I look at them, making sure to avoid his eyes. A staff member stands nearby, with stiff shoulders and poised thumbs, ready to send out the necessary notification to the rest of the team.

Martin shakes his head. "We don't know how many employees received this memo. We could be shooting ourselves in the foot by attracting a larger audience." 

Cherry lips part in shock, and she grabs Martin's shoulder. Her hand scrunching the grey shirt taut against his lean chest.

"This is a threat. Even if it hasn't physically reached certain employees, I'm sure they feel it coming. Or they're thinking about it," Cherry says, using her free hand to convey the seriousness of the situation. "Everything we've worked for will be reduced to nothing—no one wants to lose their job! We should take the risk."

She rests her case, and her arm drops to her side. Somehow, they're all looking at Martin. I'm guessing that he typically makes the final call. 

He sighs and throws his head back as if calling on a higher power. "Well..." He begins. "It fits our campaign's message. I see how you could spin it—"

"You know I can," Cherry interrupts him. Emir nods, giving her his vote of confidence. 

Martin puts his palms up, asking her to slow down. "Even if we make this public, we have to pick the right time. Timing is everything."

My palms feel sweaty. A question surfaces in my mind, one I had been pushing under the whole day: 'Is Emir the sole culprit?' 

I cannot be thinking of that right now. I shake my head to get rid of the thoughts and speak up. "It has to be now." 

"Because?" Martin prods immediately. His dark eyebrow curving up.

"He was scared and desperate. If he sees that the news isn't breaking, he could get impatient. I can't say for sure I'm the only one he has approached."

Emir looks at me and I freeze. "A local journalist, someone he finds easier to trust, could hesitate and the story could leak the wrong way." He addresses the room, but his eyes don't leave mine.

What if he wasn't the sole culprit? What do I do then? Who do I fight beside? Hasn't it always been assuring to know that I could believe in him? 

Deep in thought, Martin paces back and forth. When he finally stops, his twitchy fingers begin to delegate tasks to the staff member in the room. 

"Okay, okay. Get someone from Communications to write up talking points for Nora. Then, I want to make persuasion calls for targeted Bex counties. We can try and obtain an estimate of the number of people who feel that their job may be at risk." Jabbing his thumb in Nora's direction, he says, "We should get her comments out by the end of today."

"She just broke her arm." Cherry quietly adds. 

"She doesn't need her arm to make a statement. I don't want our spokesperson breaking this," Martin replies. He places a fist over his heart. "This is personal, it should feel personal."

Cherry frowns disapprovingly at him, but she doesn't argue further.

"Please don't coddle me because of this." Nora jumps in. She props herself up with a grunt. "Who will I be giving my statement to?"

"We'll have to choose carefully. We need to make a big splash," Emir answers. 

I fidget with the cuffs of Martin's clean white shirt—a bit too large for me—just to avoid Emir's gaze. "Reverent would never go against Orion," I say.

"Do you have any idea who would?" Martin asks. I lift my eyes to meet his and stare blankly for a few moments.

"Ah! MediaNet might," I finally reply. "I know Mark had a problem with them."

Cherry's face lights up with conviction. Her blue eyes shine like marbles under the sun. "All right! We've got options. Let's inject some fight into these people."

"Let's do it." Martin laughs. His typically stoic face breaking into a smile at her enthusiasm. 

In a minute, the world can change. It's one of the reasons why I love my job, and I can tell Martin loves his job too. 

The vision of my newsroom, once this memo is released and ONA has given its statement, is crystal clear. The rundown board would be wiped clean. The editors would rush to correct the graphics, piece together videos, fact-check over and over again. In a glass-walled room, the senior staff would pore over the details.

"You're still bleeding." Emir interrupts my thoughts, his lips frowning with concern. 

I look up at him in surprise. It takes a split-second for me to realise that he was talking about me.

A streak of blood is flowing down my thigh. One look, and I jump up in shock. The sting of the wound makes me wince, and I grab the back of the chair to steady myself.

"It's alright. I'll bandage myself again," I say, stepping away from their huddle to walk over to the bathroom. Julie comes to help, but I stop her. "I've done this enough times with my shoulder. Thank you."

She still walks with me and leaves a roll of bandages next to the sink. I wet a piece of gauze; clean the blood and the gash.

Fucking blood thinners. What a day it could have been, if not for Pradelto.

"Do you need any help?"

A jolt of frustration hits me at the sound of his voice. I bend forward and wrap the bandage above my knee.

"No."

He doesn't leave. He leans against the sink counter and watches me. My fingers shake under his gaze. It's hard to stay steady in this position.

"The clip goes the other way—"

"I don't need your help."

In my peripheral vision, I can see him recoil.

The clip drops from my fingers. The wrapped bandage comes loose—dropping to the clean tiled floor. Exasperatedly, I hold out the remaining roll of bandages for Emir, focusing my gaze on it. He places it down and washes his hands.

I watch him wordlessly. My legs feel weak, but I don't want to admit it so I don't ask him to hurry.

He grabs the roll and kneels before me. I look away before our eyes can meet.

When I steal a glance, he's drawing out the bandage, and measuring the exact length he'd need.

It's too quiet here, and he's being too careful.

For a second, I forget that I can't stand to look at him.

"Is this okay?" he mutters, slightly lifting Martin's shirt and wrapping the soft cotton around my thigh. 

Once, then another layer, and then another. I hold my breath at his touch, and I don't respond.

He stands up once he's done, and we're too close for comfort. He doesn't move, forcing me to meet his gaze. I stare into his large, concerned eyes with my lips pursed in frustration.

He asks, "Did I do something wrong?"

His hands. My blood. This is all too familiar.

Like a band of elastic, stretched to its extreme, I finally snap. "You know exactly what you did. And Johnson does too."

-----

I take tentative steps into the bedroom, trying not to place too much pressure on my ankle. He shuts the door behind us.

"What are you going to do with it?"

"You don't get to ask me that." I laugh cruelly. "Don't you get it? Johnson won. He's got me cornered. That evidence could be career-defining for me. What do you think will happen when he realises that I'm too hesitant to do anything with it? Which one of your friends will he arrest next? Or, will it be me?"

"So you won't run it?" he asks. He still seems to be worried more about his political career.

"What is wrong with you?" I seethe. A lock of hair near my face shifts as I huff out a sharp breath of air. "I am accusing you of murdering your boss. Are you not going to deny it?"

"Would that help?" he comments calmly. "I am not going to lie to you."

"Oh." I run my hands through my hair, squeezing my eyes shut.

"Ask me anything," He says firmly.

 I take a deep breath of air. 

A horrible image clouds my thoughts. One I've been avoiding. Judge Hart convulsing on his office floor, hands trying to clutch onto the rungs on his bookcase, failing to pull himself up; just trying to reach the phone on his desk.

"Why? Why did you do it?" I ask pointedly. I shrug, stuttering for a second before I form my thoughts again. "Multiple people went on record to say that you were like a son to him. He loved you."

"No, he didn't." Emir shakes his head and steps closer. "Still, I did. I loved him."

"No, you killed him." My face twists in horror at his words. "And then you went to his funeral and stood next to his weeping wife."

"I didn't have a choice." He snaps. He stops an arm's length away and his gaze softens. "He wasn't who you think he was."

"You aren't who I thought you were," I say in almost a whisper. 

His face falls. 

For a second, I think he's going to pull away and walk out of the room, but he doesn't. 

Silence has it's hands tightening around us. In my head, Judge Hart's pale face is foaming at the mouth. 

My fingers run through my hair carelessly. Maybe, I can claw the visual out of my head.

"He was horribly corrupt, London." Emir's frown twitches. "Just like the rest of them, if not worse. His entire career, his reputation—it was all a front. You don't have the slightest clue the kind of deals he was making behind closed doors. His public support for me was just a performance."

"So you killed him?" I spit back. "You can't justify this."

"I am not—" He inhales sharply. "I am asking you to understand."

"Well, I don't. If he was that awful, why didn't you report it?"

"To whom?" he asks in a baffled tone of voice. "What would I say? 'Hey, look. Another dirty judge?' Or should I have gone to a gendarme?—"

"That's not what I meant—"

"They all answer to the same people. So if my goal had been to get killed, then I would have definitely succeeded—"

"The Bar." I reply sternly, cutting him off.

"The one that tried to make sure that I couldn't sit for the exam?" he retorts immediately. I purse my lips, clenching and unclenching my fist. I don't know who I'm angrier at. Is it me or is it him?

"Right, so murder it was. You even got me to paint a target on some Nutrien employee and I gave in. God, murder seems like such a handy solution for you," I remark spitefully, straightening my back and walking closer to him.

"You can blame me if that helps you, London. But you volunteered to look for a whistleblower with me, and this entire schtick of a second whistleblower was to protect you!" he exclaims.

I imagine placing both my hands on his chest and shoving him backwards. My breaths are shallow, and I ball my fists until my fingernails dig into my skin.

"Thank you," I reply sarcastically. "Is that what you want to hear? Yes. I helped you because I thought you were better than the rest of them. But no, you're all the same."

"No, I'm not." He quickly replies. "You know, Hart was one of those men—the kind who get you to do things without having to say it. Whenever he did something I found morally unacceptable, I always found a way to justify it because I loved him. When he dismissed the case filed by those Everton counties that hadn't seen clean running water in years—I said 'he's fighting a bigger battle'—"

"You're describing yourself."

"There is a difference." He states firmly, enunciating with his hands. "With him, there was no bigger battle. It was pure fucking greed. Here, with us, there is one. That's why you're here today. That's why you still haven't used that drive."

My cold expression falters and I step back. 

No, no. He's twisting this around. My mouth quivers as it tries to find the right words. The textured wallpaper in the room seems to shift. I imagine it folding into a new shape, like origami. My heart thumps as I look at him—maybe for the first time—separate from the image that I've held on to for the last decade.

He sits down on the small white ottoman at the foot of the bed. His elbows rest on his knees, his head is tilted upwards to look at me. He places his hand on the empty space next to him, but I don't budge. 

"I almost died again." I finally whisper.

His face softens. He opens his mouth, and I hear him say it before he gets to, "I know and I'm so sorry." That's not good enough.

"They are willing to do anything to win." I add, in a leveled voice. "They would kill if they had to, and you would do the same."

"I can't help it." He replies, matching the stony calmness of my voice. "The game has always been rigged."

I shift my weight back, crossing my arms over my chest. "Alright, then." I resign myself and finally ask. 

Abruptly. Indelicately.

"Would you kill me?"

"That's not fair." He shakes his head, staring down at the floor.

"I have a right to know," I say, walking closer. "The other side would do it. If I stepped out of line, they would have me killed without hesitating. They would call me collateral damage. Would you?"

He holds my gaze silently, with conflict clear in his eyes. 

Say "no." Just say, "no." 

It's pathetic to hear the voice in my head beg for it. Yet, it does, as though it would right the wrongs. "Come on," it whines, "Just say no."

Except he can't because he would.

A short humourless laugh escapes my lips. I bend forward, meet his eyes, and say, "Fuck you." 

His indecipherable face pulses in my white-hot vision. By the time he rises to call after me, I've already slammed the door.

-----