Chapter 12 Korgan
KORGAN
The proof arrives in a grease-stained envelope slid under my door at four in the morning.
I know it's four because I'm awake. Have been for hours. Staring at my phone where Trinity's video plays on loop, her voice steady and fierce and completely alone.
I don't need you to save me.
The envelope contains a thumb drive and a note in cramped handwriting: Thought you'd want this before they scrub the servers. You're welcome. —Tech Guy You Intimidated (Worth It)
I plug the drive into the laptop the producers insisted I keep for "social media presence." Pull up files labeled with clinical efficiency: HotH_S4_EditLog_Trinity_Scandal.mov, SMS_Composite_Script_v3.doc, Agent_Carlisle_Production_Email_Thread.pdf.
My hands don't shake. Orc training—assess the battlefield before reacting.
The video file opens first. Split-screen footage shows Trinity in the confession booth across multiple sessions, time stamps in the corner. On the left, her actual words. On the right, the edited version that leaked.
Real Trinity: "I came here thinking it would be good publicity. I wanted the platform."
Cut.
Edited Trinity: "I wanted the platform."
Real Trinity: "But I didn't expect to actually fall for someone. That wasn't part of any calculation."
Cut.
Edited Trinity: "I came here for publicity. That was the calculation."
They butchered her. Took truth and carved it into lies with the precision of a surgeon removing organs.
The email thread is worse. Agent Carlisle, represents Melissa, the contestant who's been positioning herself as the authentic human alternative, coordinating with Associate Producer Hammond to "maximize Trinity narrative collapse for Melissa positioning advantage."
One email, dated three days ago: Trinity's too likable. We need her unsympathetic before finale. Orc angle is perfect, plays into existing stereotypes about opportunistic women using monster relationships for attention.
I read it twice. Three times.
They didn't just manipulate footage. They strategized Trinity's destruction like a military campaign.
The document file contains the script they used to composite her text messages, complete with notes about which phrases to pull from which conversations. Thirty-seven separate exchanges, woven together into five damning fake conversations.
Authentic linguistic patterns maintained for believability, someone noted in the margins.
My chest feels tight. Orc rage is volcanic, slow build, then eruption. I'm at the slow build, magma rising.
Trinity fought back alone. Put herself on camera, vulnerable and furious, and challenged everyone to choose a side.
And I've been sitting in this room for six hours, strategizing.
Coward.
I grab my phone. It's 4:47 AM. The producers' control room runs twenty-four hours during active filming. I've seen the lights from my window, the rotating shifts of crew members who monitor contestant quarters for spontaneous authentic moments.
Which means Hammond is there right now, probably watching Trinity's video gain traction, calculating next moves.
I dress quickly. Traditional orcish clothes, not the awkward human suits they keep pushing. Leather vest over a linen shirt, belt with my family crest, the brass rings my mother forged for my coming-of-age.
If I'm burning bridges, I'm doing it as myself.
The hallways are empty at this hour, but cameras track my movement. Good. I want this recorded.
The control room occupies the compound's west wing, a bunker of monitors and equipment that looks like a war command center. Which I suppose it is. Just different weapons.
I don't knock.
The door crashes open under my palm. Three producers whip around, startled. Hammond sits center, coffee halfway to his mouth. The monitors behind him show sleeping contestants, empty hallways, and Trinity's video paused on a frame where she's looking directly at the camera.
Directly at me.
"Dongoran." Hammond sets his coffee down carefully. "It's five AM. If you need something, we can schedule—"
"I have questions."
"We're busy—"
I cross the room in three strides, plant both hands on his desk. Lean in close enough that he flinches.
"Who edited Trinity's confession footage?"
His eyes dart to the other producers. Woman on the left, Janine, I think, reaches for a phone.
"I asked you a question."
"That's proprietary production information," Hammond tries. "We can't discuss editorial processes with—"
"With the bachelor? The centerpiece of your show? The orc you're using to rehab your network's image after the shitstorm of last season?"
Silence.
I pull the thumb drive from my pocket, hold it up.
"I have the original files. Time stamps. Email threads. The script you used to fake her text messages."
Hammond goes pale. Janine drops her phone.
The third producer, an older man I've never bothered learning the name of, clears his throat. "Those are stolen production materials. If you obtained them through—"
"Through what? Intimidation? Violence?" I bare my teeth in something that's not quite a smile. "Or through a crew member who was disgusted by what you did and wanted someone to know?"
I toss the drive onto Hammond's keyboard.
"You have two options. Option one: I take this to the media myself. Hold my own press conference. Explain in detail how you manufactured evidence to destroy a woman's reputation for ratings."
"You're under contract," Hammond snaps. "You can't just—"
"Option two," I continue, voice dropping to the register I used for battlefield commands, "you call an emergency all-cast meeting.
Right now. You play the original footage.
You apologize publicly. And you explain to every contestant, every crew member, and every camera in this building exactly what you did. "
"That's career suicide," Janine whispers.
"For you. Yes."
I straighten, look at each of them in turn.
"Trinity went public alone because I was too busy being strategic. Too concerned with clan politics and public image to stand with her when it mattered."
My voice stays level. Cold.
"But I'm done strategizing. Done playing your games and following your scripts and pretending this is anything other than what it is—exploitation dressed up as entertainment."
"You'll lose everything," the older producer says. "Your clan will exile you. You'll be unhirable. No political future. No—"
"I'll have the truth."
I turn toward the camera mounted in the corner, the one I know is recording.
"And I'll have the woman I love, if she's still willing to deal with a stubborn orc who took too long to figure out what mattered."
Direct address. The thing they've been coaching me to avoid—"never break the fourth wall, never acknowledge the cameras."
I look straight into the lens.
"Trinity. I'm sorry I made you fight alone. That ends now."
Then I pull the thumb drive from Hammond's desk, pocket it, and walk out.
Behind me, chaos erupts—shouted arguments, the clatter of someone's chair hitting the floor. I don't look back.
The hallway camera follows my exit. I wave at it.
Phase one complete.
Phase two requires a phone call I've been avoiding for six weeks.
My clan elder, Borgat Steelheart, answers on the fourth ring. His voice rumbles through the speaker like distant thunder.
"Korgan. I trust you're calling to inform me you've withdrawn from that ridiculous human spectacle."
I'm in my room now, door locked, phone on speaker while I pull up the contact information Tech Guy included with the files.
"Actually, I'm calling to inform you I'm staying. And publicly declaring my intention to court Trinity Lewis."
Silence. Then:
"You're aware this violates the courtship protocols. A public declaration without clan approval—"
"Is scandalous. Yes." I find the email address I need, a journalist who's been critical of reality show ethics. Start composing a message. "I'm counting on it."
"You're counting on dishonoring your—"
"I'm counting on the fact that you hate being embarrassed more than you hate humans."
Borgat's breathing changes. The particular huff that means I've surprised him.
"Explain."
"Option one: You denounce me publicly. Exile me for choosing a human mate. Prove every stereotype about orcs being inflexible, honor-obsessed, and unable to adapt to modern inter-species relations."
I attach the files to my email. Add a subject line: Reality Show Fabricates Evidence Against Contestant—Bachelor Has Proof.
"Or?" Borgat prompts.
"Option two: You publicly support my courtship as a bold diplomatic move. Position yourself as a progressive elder who recognizes the political value of high-profile human-orc partnerships."
"That's—"
"Strategic. Yes. I learned from the best."
I can hear him thinking. Borgat raised me after my father died in the border wars. Taught me that honor and pragmatism aren't opposites, they're tools, and knowing which to use when is what separates survivors from corpses.
"You're asking me to approve a courtship based on television spectacle."
"I'm telling you I'm courting her regardless. You can either position the clan to benefit politically, or you can waste energy fighting a battle you'll lose."
"I could cut your clan funding—"
"And I could give interviews about how orcish elder councils prioritize pride over the welfare of young clan members trying to navigate a changing world."
Silence.
Then, surprisingly, Borgat laughs. Deep and rough, like rocks grinding together.
"You learned very well."
"Is that a yes?"
"It's a... provisional acknowledgment that you've left me little choice." He pauses. "This human. She's worthy of this scandal?"
I think of Trinity's hands smeared in flour. Her sharp humor and sharper instincts. The way she said my name in the pavilion, trust and desire tangled together.
"Yes."
"Then I'll draft a statement of clan support. But Korgan—if this ends badly, if she proves false or the relationship damages clan standing—"
"It won't."
"Your certainty is either admirable or idiotic."
"Probably both."