Marcus’s POV
The building remains eerily quiet after the extraction team pulls back, and that silence tells everything I need to know about how badly this situation has spiraled beyond our control. When a facility this size goes dead quiet, it ans everyone is holding their breath, waiting to see who breaks first.
Asher keeps pace beside as we head back toward the operations floor, not crowding my space but staying close enough that my wolf settles into sothing resembling calm instead of the restless prowling that threatens to take over. I concentrate on the simple chanics of putting one foot in front of the other, heel striking tile in steady rhythm, because staying grounded matters when adrenaline is still coursing through my system like liquid fire.
The atmosphere has completely changed by the ti we reach the main corridor.
Not panic, exactly.
But awareness.
Conversations cut short mid-sentence, voices pitched lower than before, eyes following our movent with the kind of sharp attention that never happens by accident. When I catch sight of a wall monitor from the corner of my vision, my steps falter.
The footage is already running.
Poor quality video shot from multiple angles, audio crackling but clear enough to be damning, showing stepping between Asher and the extraction team leader, showing that mont of hesitation when protocol wavered and failed to snap back into place.
Soone captured everything.
Multiple soones, judging by how the feed cycles between different viewpoints.
Ruth appears at my elbow, tablet already in hand, fingers flying across the screen. "Internal distribution started imdiately. External containnt has already been breached. First clip went public minutes ago."
"How long do we have," I ask, though I suspect I know the answer.
"We don’t," she says. "It’s out there now."
The video loops again, and this ti I hear my own voice cutting through the static distortion, steady and unmistakable as I tell them no, and there’s sothing unsettling about hearing those words stripped of all context, reduced to a soundbite that can be twisted into whatever story serves the narrative.
Asher watches the screen once before turning away. "They’ll spin this however benefits them most."
"They already have," I reply. "The story was written before we walked out of that room."
We keep moving because stopping invites speculation, and as we cross the operations floor I notice how people straighten when they see us, then seem unsure whether to acknowledge or pretend they’re too occupied with their work to look up. The uncertainty tells the cracks are already forming.
Authority doesn’t collapse overnight.
It crumbles piece by piece.
Ruth’s tablet buzzes again before we reach my office, and she doesn’t need to check it for to read the answer in her expression.
"Statent request," she confirms. "The council is calling it a direct violation of protocol."
"Naturally," I say, setting my own tablet on the desk with deliberate care because my hands are still humming with barely contained tension.
Asher shuts the door behind us, the sound sharp in the sudden stillness, and for several seconds we all stand there listening to the building’s chanical breathing.
"Insubordination will be their opening argunt," Asher says. "Followed by compromised security protocols."
"Don’t forget allowing personal relationships to interfere with operational integrity," I add.
Ruth nods grimly. "That language is already in circulation."
I move to the small sink tucked into the corner of my office and turn on the tap, not because I need to wash my hands but because familiar routines help organize my thoughts. The water runs cold enough to shock my system back into focus as I scrub thodically, rinse thoroughly, dry with careful attention to detail.
"We cannot let them control the narrative," I say when I finally turn back around.
Asher’s tone carries a note of caution. "Speaking now gives them ammunition to claim escalation."
"Staying silent lets them claim I’ve lost control," I counter.
Ruth releases a slow breath. "Either choice positions you as the liability."
I face them both, anchoring myself in the familiar territory of my office, the weight of the desk, the chair I don’t sit in because sitting would signal retreat.
"Then we make the real problem impossible to ignore," I say.
Ruth’s eyebrows lift slightly. "Public statent."
"Yes."
Asher searches my face. "Once you cross that line, there’s no undoing it."
"I understand the stakes."
The footage continues its loop on the corridor monitor, and I can hear voices gathering outside my office as more people stop to watch, and I know that any hesitation now will be interpreted as admission of guilt later.
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