30. Camille #2
The hallway outside is dimmer and less controlled. I make it halfway towards the lift before the conference-room door opens behind me.
“Camille.”
I stop and turn.
Blaire stands outside the room with one hand still resting on the door. She lets it close, then walks towards me.
“You should have told me the interview changed the performance window.”
There is no preamble.
“I did not confirm it until after the broadcast began.”
“You knew before we sent them onstage.”
“Yes.”
“And you had another plan.”
I hold her gaze. “Yes.”
Her jaw tightens. “You used my formation and medical restrictions to support it.”
“They also protected the girls.”
“That doesn’t make it acceptable.”
“No.”
The answer appears to unsettle her more than an argument would.
Blaire glances towards the corridor camera. She steps into the camera’s blind angle and activates the sound-dampening field on her security badge.
“How much did you know?” she asks.
“Enough to believe canceling would leave the channel open without giving us a way to close it.”
“And not enough to trust me?”
“I did not know who could access your communications. I also did not know whether you would escalate to Voss before we were prepared.”
“I would have cancelled.”
“Yes.”
“And you think that would have been wrong?”
“I think it might have made the situation worse.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
Neither of us moves.
The honesty does not repair the damage, but it prevents another lie.
“I knew Eon kept things from us,” she says. “I knew the Council sealed reports after serious incidents. I knew there were always explanations ready before anyone finished asking questions.”
“But you did not know the contracts were involved.”
“No.” Her answer is immediate. “I thought they governed scheduling, availability, and the bonds. I knew the wards connected to performances. I did not know an interview could open anything.”
The anger in her voice is real.
So is the betrayal.
“And the previous groups?” I ask.
Her expression changes. “I knew the official stories didn’t make sense.”
“How much?”
“Velour Sky’s report was sealed before the families were notified. Neon Saints supposedly retired, but I never saw transition paperwork. Glass Anthem disappeared after Valencia, and every question I asked was redirected to the Council.”
“Yet, you agreed to manage the next group.”
Her eyes meet mine. “I stayed close enough to protect the next group.”
Midnight Halo.
The answer is not absolution.
It is not complicity either.
“I thought the Council was hiding failures,” she says. “Bad decisions. Incidents they couldn’t explain. I did not think the system itself was part of the threat.”
I look back towards the closed conference-room door.
“Devin knows the risk models,” I say. “Cohen knows the infrastructure. Bane knows how to manage the aftermath. You know what happens to the performers caught between those systems.”
“And you?”
“I noticed the pieces fit together.”
Blaire’s gaze sharpens. “How many pieces?”
Too direct.
I do not answer.
She understands the silence.
“You were careful in there,” she says.
“I was asking questions.”
“You already knew some of the answers.”
“Yes.”
“And if they realize how many?”
“They may reconsider whether my continued access is useful.”
“That is one way to say it.”
“It is the relevant one.”
Her mouth flattens. “Be careful.”
It is not a threat.
It is survival advice from someone who has spent years learning what Eon does when an employee notices too much.
“Do you believe me?” I ask.
“I believe what I saw tonight. Jules was moving like something else owned her. The audience moved with her. Staff members collapsed together, and the official explanation is a lie because I helped distribute it.”
“That is not the same as believing the entire structure is intentional.”
“No,” she says. “I’m not there yet.”
The honesty is preferable to false agreement.
“But I believe enough to know the information is being kept separate on purpose,” she continues. “And enough to know you shouldn’t keep investigating alone.”
“You expect me to include you now?”
“I expect you to decide whether what I know is worth the risk.”
A precise answer.
One I might have given.
“You should have trusted me,” she says.
“I know.”
“And next time?”
There cannot be another Tokyo.
The data on my tablet suggests otherwise.
“Next time, I will tell you enough to perform your role safely.”
Her expression hardens. “That is exactly how they talk.”
The observation lands cleanly.
She is right.
I have spent years believing that controlling information protects people. Tonight, Eon used the same logic to send four women onto a stage without telling them what the system intended to take.
I adjust.
“Next time,” I say, “we decide together what is safe to share.”
Blaire watches me for several seconds.
Then she nods.
Not forgiveness.
Terms.
She glances again at the corridor camera. “Not here.”
“No.”
“Somewhere outside the Tower.”
“When we return to Los Angeles.”
“And the girls are included.”
“Yes.”
That answer comes without calculation.
They have been managed long enough.
Blaire steps back towards the conference room, then pauses. “For what it’s worth, Devin is furious about the restrictions.”
“I noticed.”
“Cohen supported them.”
“He wants access to my analysis.”
“Probably.”
“And Voss?”
Her expression darkens. “He’ll let you keep working as long as you remain useful.”
I already know.
It is how I survived Valencia.
It is how I will survive this.
“For now,” Blaire says.
“For now,” I agree.
Because for now, they believe I am repairing the system.
That gives me time to dismantle it.