Shouts echoed from the Rotunda outside, a primal roar that vibrated through the very structure of the Senate building. Senator Bradley banged his gavel repeatedly, demanding order over the rising din.
Newsmen scrambled over chairs, lenses snapping, desperate to capture every flicker of expression on Arthur’s face. The tension in the committee room reached a boiling point, a volatile mix of public outrage and institutional chaos.
I stood up from the gallery row, my legs carrying me forward. I walked directly down the center aisle, my eyes fixed on the man at the witness table. My father.
In my hand, I clutched Julian’s final handwritten letter, its fragile paper a testament to his courage. The noise in the chamber was deafening, a torrent of sound.
Arthur, sensing my approach, turned his head. His eyes, cold and hard, met mine for the first time in four years. His posture remained rigid, but a vein pulsed visibly in his temple, a visible tremor beneath his composure.
The gallery erupted into a collective gasp, then a renewed wave of deafening noise. The confrontation, four years in the making, was finally face-to-face, poised on the edge of chaos.
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