Chapter 9: The Hand-Off

👉 Previous decision: You chose Option A – Smuggle Devon Hart’s physical medical records directly to veteran news anchor Marcus Finch at the ceremony.

The Global Entertainment Awards was a dazzling vortex of light and sound. Limousines idled, celebrities posed, and the red carpet buzzed with a thousand camera flashes. I moved through the chaos, a ghost in an ill-fitting tuxedo, the heavy folder of Devon Hart’s records tucked inside my jacket.

Clara, disguised as a catering assistant, led me through a service entrance, past a distracted guard checking credentials for the hundredth time. The air backstage was thick with hairspray, sweat, and nervous energy. We slipped past a gaggle of dancers, then through a corridor lined with monitor screens displaying the live feed of the red carpet.

“There he is,” Clara whispered, pointing to a screen. Marcus Finch, silver-haired and sharp-suited, stood at the podium, a microphone in his hand, interviewing a grinning pop star. His crew moved with practiced efficiency around him.

“Now,” she urged. “Go. He’ll be rotating interview slots soon. He likes to walk through the crowd sometimes, find an unscripted moment.”

My heart hammered against the medical file in my jacket pocket. I pushed through a curtain, emerging onto the edge of the red carpet, a sea of unfamiliar faces. Marcus Finch concluded his current interview, gave a quick nod to his producer, and began to move, scanning the crowd. This was my chance.

I walked straight towards him, my eyes fixed on his. A security guard, seeing my determined stride, began to step towards me, his hand raising.

“Mr. Finch!” I called out, my voice raw over the din.

Finch paused, his professional smile faltering slightly as he registered the urgency in my eyes. The security guard was closing in, a hand reaching for my shoulder.

“Devon Hart,” I blurted, pulling the thick file from my jacket. “This is everything. Apex covered it up. Neurological trauma. Not retirement.”

I shoved the folder into his outstretched hand, the weight of it thudding against his palm. His eyes widened, fixing on the “Confidential” stamp and the “HART, DEVON” label.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice low, his eyes quickly scanning the first page. The security guard was upon me, his grip like iron on my arm.

“The truth,” I said, looking directly at Finch. “The truth about what Apex does.”

The security guard yanked me backward, pulling me away from the bright lights and the flashing cameras. Finch, however, remained rooted to the spot, the thick folder clutched in his hand, his gaze distant, already piecing it together.

I was being dragged towards a side exit, my mission accomplished. The records were out of my hands, into the hands of someone who could actually expose the truth.

➡️ Read CHAPTER 11 to continue the story