Chapter 10 Korgan #2
I spend the rest of the morning researching ritual law and crafting arguments for why a public relationship with a human might actually serve orc interests.
It's thin, but it's possible. Show humans that orcs are capable of gentleness, partnership, domesticity.
Break down barriers that have kept our peoples separate for generations.
It might work. It has to work.
Because exile is starting to look like a small price to pay for what I'd be keeping.
The studio parking lot reveals three things immediately: too many news vans, a camera crew I don't know, and Brunhilde Ironthew standing next to a rental SUV that looks too small for her frame.
She spots me. Waves. The motion's aggressive enough to qualify as a threat display.
"Korgan Dongoran! Your aunt said you'd be taller!"
I'm six-foot-seven. Brunhilde appears to be judging height by mountain standards.
"Brunhilde." I nod, keeping distance. "This is unexpected."
"Your family sent me! Said you needed proper courtship from a proper female!" She flexes again, biceps straining against what appears to be tactical gear. "I brought my ceremonial battle-axe! For the engagement ritual!"
Of course she did.
"There won't be an engagement ritual."
"Your modesty is charming! But I've already booked the ritual space for next week! My father's sending the dowry goats via cargo plane!"
A production assistant I recognize—Marcus, Trinity's friend from the crew—appears at my elbow. "Uh, Korgan? We've got a situation inside. Trinity asked me to find you."
Perfect excuse. "Apologies, Brunhilde. Duty calls."
"I'll wait! Your aunt said you finish filming at six! We can have our first combat-date then!"
I escape into the building before she can elaborate on what exactly a combat-date involves. Marcus keeps pace, practically jogging to match my stride.
"Dude, your family's intense." he says.
"You have no idea."
"Also, heads up. There's some weird energy on set today. Couple of producers having heated conversations in corners. Trinity's segment got moved up without explanation."
"Where is she?"
"Hair and makeup, but she's pissed. Said something about her bakery's Instagram getting flooded with bot comments about health code violations."
I stop walking. "When did this start?"
"This morning, I think? She was showing me during breakfast. Hundreds of comments, all posted within an hour window, all saying basically the same thing about rats and roaches."
Sabotage. Professional, coordinated sabotage targeting Trinity's business directly.
"I need to see her phone."
"She's got it with her."
I change direction, heading for the makeup wing. Marcus follows, silent now, probably sensing this isn't casual concern anymore.
Trinity's in the third chair, some assistant working on her hair while she scrolls through her phone with increasing agitation. Her expression shifts when she sees me—relief mixed with frustration.
"Tell me you saw it."
"Just heard. Show me."
She hands over the phone. The Instagram feed for Lewis & Daughter Bakery is a mess. Comment after comment, all variations on the same theme: Health inspector should check this place, Saw a rat in the kitchen, Friend got food poisoning from their cinnamon rolls.
I scroll further. The pattern's obvious once you're looking for it. Fake accounts, generated within hours of each other, all following similar naming conventions. Numbers instead of letters, generic profile pictures, zero followers.
"This is professional," I say.
"Professional sabotage of my small-town bakery? Who'd bother?"
"Someone who wants you off this show. Someone with resources and motivation."
"The producers wouldn't tank their own contestant."
"Not the producers. Someone connected to the show who benefits from you failing."
Trinity's makeup artist clears her throat. "Should I... give you privacy?"
"Yes," Trinity and I say simultaneously.
The woman leaves. Trinity stands, snatching her phone back. "You think it's another contestant?"
"Or someone attached to one. An agent, maybe. Someone who sees you as competition."
"For what? Korgan, this is a reality show, not the Olympics."
"You're likeable. Authentic. The audience loves you." I pull out my own phone, start typing notes. "That makes you dangerous to someone who's invested in a different outcome."
"You sound paranoid."
"I sound tactical. There's a difference."
She stares at me, then sits back down heavily. "This could destroy my business. People in my town actually read reviews. They'll believe this."
"Not if we prove it's fake first."
"How?"
"Let me work on it."
"Korgan—"
"Trust me."
The words hang between us. She nods slowly. "Okay. But carefully. The last thing I need is this turning into a bigger scandal."
"Agreed."
I leave her there and head for the production offices. The building's a maze of converted warehouse space, but I've learned the layout. Executive offices are on the second floor, overlooking the main studio.
I'm not looking for executives.
I find Marcus again outside the craft services area, deep in conversation with someone from sound mixing. He sees me and excuses himself.
"Need something else?"
"Information. Off the record."
His expression sharpens. "What kind?"
"The kind about who might benefit from Trinity leaving the show. Contestant-wise."
"You think someone's actively sabotaging her?"
"I know someone is. I need to know who."
Marcus glances around, then lowers his voice. "There's been talk. Mostly crew gossip, but... you know Vanessa? The influencer contestant with the pink hair?"
I picture her vaguely. Loud, performative, constantly filming herself. "What about her?"
"Her agent's been on set a lot. More than normal. Heard him arguing with producers about screen time, about making sure Vanessa's storyline stays central." He pauses. "He's also some hotshot crisis management guy. Specializes in reputation warfare for celebrities."
"Name?"
"Derek Lingard. Works for Apex Entertainment Group."
I commit it to memory. "Where is he now?"
"Probably in the green room. He practically lives there."
"Show me."
Marcus leads me through back corridors to a door marked VIP Lounge. Through the small window, I spot a man in an expensive suit, phone pressed to his ear, pacing like a caged animal.
"That's him," Marcus whispers.
I watch Derek Lingard for thirty seconds. His body language speaks volumes: aggressive gestures, sharp head movements, the way he punctuates sentences by jabbing at the air. Someone used to controlling situations, to bending circumstances to his will.
"I need to get into his computer."
"What? Dude, no. That's insane."
"Not his computer. His phone. Five minutes access while he's distracted."
"Korgan, I could lose my job."
"Trinity could lose her business."
Marcus wavers. I can see the internal struggle, loyalty versus self-preservation. Finally: "This is a terrible idea."
"Most good ideas start that way."
"I'm not helping you commit crimes."
"Just create a distraction. Thirty seconds. That's all I need."
"And if he catches you?"
"He won't."
Marcus closes his eyes, clearly regretting every decision that led to this moment. "Fine. But you owe me. Big time."
"Agreed."
He disappears. I count to sixty, then enter the green room like I own it. Derek Lingard looks up, irritation flashing across his face.
"This room's private."
"Looking for the bathroom. Apologies."
"Down the hall, second left."
I nod, make as if to leave, then pause. "You work for Vanessa, right? The influencer."
His expression shifts slightly. Professional mask sliding into place. "I represent Miss Vanessa Martinez, yes."
"Must be difficult. Managing someone in an uncontrolled environment like this."
"I'm sorry, who are you?"
"Korgan. The orc bachelor."
Recognition now, mixed with calculation. "Ah. You're the one dating the baker."
"Something like that."
"She's quite charming. Very... wholesome." The word carries weight, like he's describing a flaw. "I'm sure the audiences eat it up."
Before I speak, there's a crash from the hallway. Shouting. Marcus's voice: "I'm so sorry! The coffee cart just—everywhere!"
Derek Lingard swears, moving toward the door. "Incompetent—excuse me."
He rushes out, leaving his phone on the table. Face-up. Unlocked.
I move fast. Grab the phone, navigate to his messages. Scroll back through hours of conversations, looking for anything related to Trinity, to sabotage, to coordinated attacks.
There. A thread with someone labeled Digital Cleanup:
Phase two complete. Bot deployment successful. Bakery reviews tanking as planned.
Good. How long until it affects her credibility?
Already trending locally. Should hit her bottom line by week's end.
Perfect. Keep monitoring. If she stays on the show past episode 10, proceed with phase three.
I photograph the messages with my own phone, then keep scrolling. More threads, more evidence. Coordination with fake review sites, payments to bot farms, even a conversation about potentially staging a health inspector "surprise visit" at Trinity's bakery with a paid-off official.
It's comprehensive. Professional. Vicious.
I'm about to close the phone when I spot another thread. This one with a producer named Garrett:
She's good for ratings. I can't just eliminate her.
You don't have to eliminate her. Just damage her enough that she eliminates herself. Depression. Anxiety. Public humiliation. Make her want to leave.
And my cut?
Same as discussed. 20% of Vanessa's endorsement deals for the next two years.
My hands tighten on the phone. Garrett. A producer I've met exactly twice, always smiling, always talking about "authentic storytelling."
Footsteps in the hallway. Derek's voice: "—absolutely unacceptable. That's the third incident this week—"
I set the phone back exactly where I found it and exit through the side door just as Derek reenters. My heart's hammering, adrenaline singing through my veins. Not from fear—from rage.