CHAPTER 23: THE SIEGE — Part 4
Dennis's hand was on his gun. Moving with purpose. Not pointing it yet, but preparing.
I stepped between him and Marcus. Direct. Deliberate.
"What's your real plan, Dennis?"
He froze. Everyone in the room went still.
"What?" Marcus asked. Looking between us.
I kept my eyes on Dennis. Let the Empathy Engine extend fully. Pushed past the cold exterior to the pain underneath.
She died alone. They gave her the pills. Smiled while they poisoned her. Someone has to pay. They all have to pay—
"You don't care about pensions," I said to Dennis. Voice steady despite my heart hammering. "This was never about healthcare or layoffs. What do you actually want?"
"Roman, what are you talking about?" Marcus's confusion was genuine.
Dennis's face was stone. "Shut up, kid."
"No." I took a step closer. Dangerous, but necessary. "You have a different reason for being here. Something personal. What is it?"
The gun came up. Pointed at my chest. Again.
"I said shut up."
Behind me, I heard gasps from the hostages. Jerry making a scared noise. Marcus saying something.
But I focused on Dennis. On the crack in his armor.
"Someone died," I said quietly. Empathy Engine showing me fragments. "Someone you loved. And you blame Waystar. You blame us."
His hand shook. Just slightly. The first emotion I'd seen break through.
"You don't know anything."
"Then tell me." I met his eyes. "Tell me what happened."
Silence. Long enough that I thought he'd just pull the trigger.
Then: "My daughter."
Marcus turned. "What?"
"My daughter," Dennis repeated. Voice hollow. "Melissa. She was twenty-three. Had back surgery. They gave her Oxy. Said it was safe. Said it was temporary." His hand tightened on the gun. "Two months later she was buying it off the street. Six months later she was doing heroin. A year later she was dead."
The room held its breath.
"The pills came from a Waystar subsidiary," Dennis continued. "Pharmaceutical company. Owned by your fucking family. They knew those pills were addictive. They marketed them anyway. Lied about the risks. Made billions while people died."
I felt the weight of it. Not just Dennis's pain but the systemic horror underneath. The Sacklers in my original world. The opioid epidemic. The pharmaceutical companies that chose profit over lives.
And apparently, Waystar owned one of them.
"I'm sorry," I said. Meant it.
"Sorry." Dennis laughed. Broken. "Everyone's sorry. The doctors were sorry. The funeral director was sorry. Sorry doesn't bring her back."
"No. It doesn't." I kept my voice gentle. Used Silver Tongue without forcing it—just sincere truth carried by power. "But killing people here won't bring her back either."
"It'll make someone pay."
"Will it? Marcus and Jerry didn't hurt your daughter. These hostages didn't hurt your daughter. Shooting them just adds more bodies. More families destroyed."
"They're part of the system."
"So am I," I said. "I'm a Roy. If you want revenge on the family, I'm right here. But that won't fix anything either."
Dennis stared at me. The gun wavered.
"She was a good kid," he said quietly. "Wanted to be a teacher. Had a boyfriend. Whole life ahead of her. And then..." He stopped. Breathed. "And then she was just... gone."
I saw it then, clearly. Not just the rage but the desperate need for someone to acknowledge what had been taken from him.
"Your daughter mattered," I said. Every word deliberate. Silver Tongue carrying the weight of truth. "What happened to her was wrong. Evil. The company that did that should be held accountable. Actually accountable. Not just settlements and fines. Real consequences."
"How? They're too powerful. Too rich. People like you don't face consequences."
"Maybe they should." I held his gaze. "Maybe I can make that happen. But not if you shoot people here. Not if this ends in blood. Because then the story becomes 'crazy gunman kills innocents' and your daughter's story gets buried underneath."
"And if we surrender? Prison and silence?"
"Or prison and a platform. Media's already outside. Cameras. Reporters. If you surrender peacefully, tell your story, connect it to corporate malfeasance—" I let the possibility hang. "Which makes more impact? Dying as a murderer or living as a witness?"
Dennis's face worked. Emotion cracking through decades of control.
Marcus spoke up. "Dennis. I didn't know. About your daughter. I'm sorry."
"Yeah."
"But the kid's right. We can't help anyone dead."
Jerry, from near the door: "Please. I just want to go home."
Dennis looked at each of them. At the gun in his hand. At me.
"She had brown hair," he said quietly. "Like her mother. And this laugh. This great laugh. She'd throw her head back and just..." He stopped. The gun lowered. An inch. Then two.
Then he set it on the floor.
Sat down hard.
And started to cry.
Marcus lowered his gun too. Exhaustion and relief mixing on his face. "It's over."
Jerry was already crying. Relief pouring out of him.
I felt Trauma Lock straining. The fear I'd been holding at bay for hours pressing against the walls. My legs wanted to give out. Hands starting to shake.
But not yet. Not quite yet.
"Marcus," I said. Voice steady through sheer will. "You need to put the weapons somewhere the police can see them. Away from everyone. Then we all walk out together. Hands up. Peaceful."
He nodded. Started gathering the guns. Set them in a pile near the window where they'd be visible.
"Everyone ready?" I asked the hostages.
Nods. Some crying. All exhausted.
I walked to the door. Opened it. Raised my hands.
"WE'RE COMING OUT," I called to the police. "HOSTAGES FIRST. THEN THE THREE MEN. NOBODY'S ARMED. NOBODY'S A THREAT."
Tactical teams responded. "HANDS UP. COME OUT SLOWLY."
The hostages filed out first. One by one. Hands raised. Moving toward the police line where they were checked, cleared, moved to safety.
Emily went past me. Squeezed my shoulder. "Thank you."
Mark. Lisa. The others. All safe.
Then Marcus. Then Jerry. Then Dennis.
All three with their hands up. Moving slowly. Police swarming them. Cuffs. Pat-downs. The efficient machinery of arrest.
I was last. Walked out alone. Hands up. Legs shaking.
An officer approached. Checked me over. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
"Need medical?"
"Maybe."
He guided me to an ambulance. Sat me on the back bumper. Wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.
And finally—finally—Trauma Lock released.
Everything I'd been holding crashed through at once. Roman's childhood terror. Present fear. The impossible weight of three guns pointed at me. Dennis's grief. Marcus's desperation. Jerry's panic.
All of it at once.
My hands shook. Then my arms. Then my whole body. I couldn't stop it. Couldn't control it.
The paramedic—kind eyes, seen this before—put a hand on my shoulder. "You're safe now. Just breathe. You're safe."
I tried. Couldn't. The shaking got worse.
"Shock," the paramedic said to her partner. "Get him to the hospital."
They loaded me into the ambulance. I was dimly aware of sirens starting. Movement. Voices on radios.
My phone was buzzing constantly in my pocket. I didn't look at it. Couldn't.
The world narrowed to the shaking and the breathing and trying to hold together.
I'd done it. Saved everyone. Ended it peacefully.
And now my body was presenting the bill for all the terror I'd suppressed.
The ambulance drove on.
And I shook.
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