The studio smelled faintly of ozone and cold coffee—sterile, like every other place built to host the truth.
Overhead, lights hung in perfect symmetry, humming softly. Cameras faced inward, black glass eyes waiting to blink. The set gleamed in muted silver and blue, polished to suggest calm, order, and control. Yet under that sheen, something restless stirred.
Across the glass table sat two people—one who asked questions for a living, and one who had learned to weaponize answers.
"Mr. Marcus," the host began, her voice smooth, practiced. Her eyes were sharp despite the warmth in her tone. "You've agreed to speak tonight after weeks of silence. Millions have seen the footage, the chaos, the aftermath. The Azaqor incident has shaken the entire nation. Can you tell us—what really happened inside that building?"
Elijah Marcus sat still for a moment, his reflection warped on the glass before him. Under the studio lights, he looked older than his years—eyes bruised by exhaustion, the corners of his mouth faintly quivering, though not from fear.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, each word measured, deliberate.
"It wasn't random," he said. "It was built. Every wall, every corridor—it was all part of a system. The Halverns didn't just trap us inside an abandoned site. They designed it. Turrets in the walls. Surveillance woven through the ceilings. Everything controlled remotely. What we thought was chaos… was orchestration."
The host leaned forward slightly, a movement so subtle only the camera would catch it. "You're saying William and Viola Halvern were behind the operation directly?"
Elijah's gaze flicked to the lens, then back to her. "They were the architects. The voice we heard—the commands, the threats—it wasn't human. It was pre-recorded. Every scream they forced out of us was calculated. They watched from elsewhere. Probably laughing."
A hush fell across the crew. Even off-camera, one could sense the unease creeping through the air.
The host turned a page on her notes, her tone careful. "And Chloe Halvern—Viola's daughter—was among you. If her parents orchestrated this, why risk her life?"
That question made something flicker in Elijah's eyes. The faintest tightening, a trace of heat behind his calm.
"She was the perfect misdirection," he said quietly. "The world would never believe her parents could hurt her. That's how they ensured no one looked deeper. Chloe… she didn't know. Or maybe she did, but couldn't stop it. Either way, she was the key to the illusion."
His words hung there, heavy.
The host hesitated. "You sound certain."
"I lived it," Elijah murmured.
He shifted, fingers curling into his palms. The lights overhead reflected in his eyes like shards of glass.
"There was gas," he continued, voice lowering. "It came through vents in the floor—sweet-smelling, almost harmless at first. Then it hit. Everyone around me began collapsing. Chloe too. She tried to speak—couldn't. And then the floor opened. A man stepped out. Black gear, rifle raised."
Elijah paused. The studio felt suddenly smaller.
"I didn't think," he said. "I just moved. There was a piece of rebar near the wall. I swung it. He went down. I carried Chloe out before the gas could finish us. That's all I remember."
The silence afterward felt rehearsed, but it wasn't. It was instinct—the kind that follows witnessing something both horrifying and strangely believable.
The host finally exhaled. "You've endured something unimaginable," she said softly. "But there are still questions. Investigators claim some of the masked men weren't part of the Halverns' staff. That they acted independently. Do you think someone else hijacked their plan?"
Elijah tilted his head slightly, as if considering mercy.
"Maybe," he said. "But whoever they were, they won't stay hidden for long. Detective Owen Kessler's already found leads. Even Caleb Saye—before he disappeared—couldn't stop him. If the Halverns' puppets are still out there, they'll be caught. They'll face justice."
He looked directly into the camera now. His eyes, once weary, steadied. The faint tremor in his hands vanished. Every word came out smoother, colder.
"I promise you," he said, "no one escapes what they've done."
The moment froze—the kind that turns viewers into believers. The host blinked, caught off guard by the quiet authority in his voice.
"Thank you, Elijah," she said finally. "For your courage—and for your time. We wish you healing, and peace."
Elijah gave a small nod, his lips curving in something that wasn't quite gratitude.
"Peace," he echoed. The word tasted strange on his tongue.
The broadcast faded to the network logo. Music swelled. The cameras cut.
Elsewhere, the world kept watching.
In a dim apartment, a young mother pressed a hand to her belly, whispering to her unborn child, "It's over now. It has to be."
In a hotel bar, two men argued about whether Elijah was lying, their reflections flickering across the screen like ghosts of opposing truths.
And in a room without light—somewhere no camera could find—someone laughed.
A figure leaned back into the shadows, face obscured except for the gleam of teeth catching the television's glow. The grin was patient, precise, stretching too wide for comfort. On the screen, Elijah's image froze mid-breath—eyes intense, jaw set, the illusion of a survivor.
"Good performance," the voice in the dark whispered.
The TV crackled, the image distorted—just enough for the grin to look eerily similar to the one on screen.
Then the power cut out.
And in that sudden, perfect silence, only one sound remained—a low, delighted laugh, echoing like thunder under glass.