But it was his eyes that stopped my heart. They weren't the cold, calculating blue of the agent. They were the burning, furious blue of a wolf at the door.
He crossed the room in three long strides. He didn't say a word. He didn't try to explain where they had been or why they had left. He just reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
He shoved the screen into my face.
"Look," he commanded. The word was a growl, rough with smoke and rage.
I flinched back, expecting to see the leak. Expecting to see my own medical records highlighted in neon, or the drone footage of me cowering in the mud.
"Look at it," Anders urged, stepping closer, boxing me in against Daniel’s massive frame.
I forced my eyes to focus on the screen.
It was a livestream. Vertical video, shaky and handheld, vibrating with kinetic energy. The viewer count in the top corner was ticking up so fast it was a blur,4.8M... 4.9M... 5.0M.
The camera angle flipped.
I saw a face I knew. Sharp cheekbones, dark hair wet with rain, eyes black with fury.
Simon.
"Simon?" I breathed.
On the screen, Simon was walking. He wasn't hiding in the car. He wasn't cowering. He was marching through the rain in my driveway, holding his phone up like a torch. He walked right up to the white van blocking the gate, the one blasting my trauma into the air.
"Hey guys,"Simon’s voice came through the phone’s speaker, tinny but dripping with venom."Welcome back to the stream. Sorry for the delay. I know you're used to seeing me draw, but today we're doing a different kind of art. It’s called 'Consequences.'"
On the screen, Simon shoved his phone camera right into the window of the van. The driver, a guy in a beanie, scrambled to cover his face.
"That's a Ford Transit,"Simon narrated, his voice deadly calm."License plate Washington B-K-L-4-9-2. Registered to a shell company owned by PulseMedia tabloids. And that guy covering his face? That looks a lot like Greg Miller. Greg, didn't you just get sued for trespassing in Malibu?"
Simon spun around. The camera whipped to the three men standing by the gate with telephoto lenses. They lowered their cameras, looking unsettled. They were used to hunting, not being hunted.
"And here we have the ground team,"Simon sneered, walking right up to them."Get a good look, chat. Five million of you. I want you to see the faces of grown men who use signaljammers to isolate a woman so they can broadcast audio of a panic attack."
The comments on the side of the screen were a waterfall of rage. Not at me. Atthem.
@ArtWitch: Dox them back, Si.
@RoseBud_Official says: LEAVE HER ALONE.
@OmegaRightsWatch says: Is that legal? That audio sounds illegal.
"You want to talk about 'Graduation Girl'?"Simon roared on the video, turning back to the van. He kicked the bumper, a dull thud that I heard through the phone and, a split second later, echoed through the glass walls of the house."This isn't news. This is harassment. And you are doing it on private property."
Simon looked directly into his phone camera. His eyes were wild, dark, and protective. He wasn't looking at his audience. He was looking atme.
"Tessa,"he said, his voice breaking."If you're watching this... we didn't leave you. We went to get ammo. And now we're clearing the field."
Anders pulled the phone away.
The scent of icy winter air rolled off him, sharp and aggressive, cutting through my own fear.
"He's destroying them," Anders said, his voice low. "He is burning their anonymity to the ground. Five million people are currently identifying every piece of equipment, every license plate, and every face in that driveway."
I looked at Anders, then up at Daniel.
"You really... you came back," I whispered. "I thought you were setting me up."
