The polished floor of the executive wing blurred beneath my feet as Maya and I ran, the frantic shouts of Marcus Oakridge and studio security echoing behind us.
We rounded a corner, heading towards the main studio auditorium, where the press conference was minutes away from starting. Ahead, a familiar figure emerged from a side entrance to the stage floor.
It was Hector Castillo, flanked by three other veteran crew members, their faces grimly determined.
Hector met my eyes, a silent communication passing between us. He had understood the plan. The distraction. The escape.
As Oakridge and his security detail pounded around the corner, Hector and his crew moved with practiced efficiency. They grabbed heavy metal staging bars, usually used to secure large set pieces.
With a series of loud clangs, they slid the bars through the double handles of the main executive boardroom doors, locking Oakridge, Veronica, Julian, and the studio lawyers inside.
Oakridge’s furious face appeared at the small window of the door, his hand slamming against the glass. “Castillo! What are you doing?! Open this door, now!”
Hector ignored him, giving one final, decisive tug on the bars to ensure they were secure. He turned to me, a faint, knowing wink in his eye.
“Sorry, Mr. Oakridge,” Hector called out, his voice booming down the hall. “Safety regulations. Can’t have anyone tampering with the press conference from the wings.”
He pointed toward the stage entrance of the main press auditorium, a wide, illuminated opening. “Go tell the world, kid.”
My heart pounded, a mix of adrenaline and anticipation. The path was clear. The stage was waiting. It was time to fight back, not in the shadows of a corporate office, but in the blinding glare of the public eye.
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