Chapter 8: The Red Carpet Reckoning

👉 Previous decision: You successfully obtained Devon Hart’s medical records, but Julian launched a full-scale financial retaliation.

Three hours later, I stood at the Griffith Observatory, the iconic dome silhouetted against the pre-dawn glow of Los Angeles. Clara Halloway emerged from the shadows, a worn trench coat wrapped tightly around her. She carried a large, nondescript tote bag.

“You made it,” she said, her voice flat, her eyes scanning the empty parking lot.

“Julian left me nothing,” I replied, the words tasting like ash. “Every account, every contact. Gone.”

“That’s his M.O.,” Clara said, her jaw tight. “He isolates, then he wipes. Makes you a non-person. But you still have the files, right?”

I patted my satchel. The thick file was still there, a tangible piece of justice I clung to.

“Good,” she said, a flicker of something in her eyes. “Because tonight is the Global Entertainment Awards. Marcus Finch will be there.”

Marcus Finch. The legendary veteran investigative broadcaster. A name synonymous with exposing corruption. My mind whirred.

“Finch is one of the few people Julian can’t control,” Clara explained. “Apex has tried, but Finch is too big, too respected. And he hates cover-ups. Devon Hart’s story? That’s his kind of story.”

She opened her tote bag, revealing a stack of meticulously forged credentials and a sleek, black tuxedo. “You need to look the part. Blend in. The awards ceremony is a fortress, but the red carpet? Organized chaos. That’s our window.”

“How do we get close enough to Finch?” I asked, looking at the tuxedo. It felt like a costume for a life I no longer possessed.

“I have a contact, a former stagehand,” Clara said. “She owes me a favor. We can get you backstage. But once you’re there, it’s on you. Finch will be doing live interviews. You’ll have maybe ten seconds, fifteen if we’re lucky.”

The plan felt insane. Walking into the lion’s den, directly into Julian’s meticulously crafted world of illusion and control.

“Julian will be in his VIP executive suite, watching the broadcast,” I murmured. “He’ll know I’m there.”

Clara nodded, her gaze fixed on the rising sun. “He’ll be celebrating his empire, unaware that you’re about to burn it down. This is your only shot, Ethan. To make his truth—Apex’s truth—public. Otherwise, Devon Hart stays buried, and you… you’re just another ghost in his machine.”

I gripped the worn leather of my satchel. This wasn’t just for Devon Hart, or Clara, or even for my ruined career. It was for every handler, every victim, every truth Julian had erased.