The tally turned red and stayed there like a choice.
The host's smile became a bridge. "One clean minute on consent and publicity," he said. "Evan Hale joins Maya Quinn for a statement."
I didn't move. The window plate glowed on the control monitor like context with a backbone. The lower-third already said Consent Statement. The hedge was patient.
Evan lifted his chin a fraction. Not heroic. Practical. "I haven't consented to romantic staging tonight or to any cut implying it," he said. "If you see one, treat it as editing, not my consent."
Room tone held. Victor's fingers hovered near his board and let physics be honest. The audience did not clap. The sound we got was attention.
"Thank you," the host said, and prepared to stop speaking.
A producer in the wing made the little circle that means clarify. The graphics op somewhere twitched. For two heartbeats, a lower-third tried to become Evan responds to rumors.
"Window on screen," Rita said, audible enough to be picked, her phone a flag. The plate brightened. The imposter lower-third flushed and corrected to Consent Statement like it had been born polite.
The prompt tablet slid into the edge of Camera B's sightline with a face it loved. PROMPT: Ask about marriage blinked like a child who thinks rules are a game. Boone moved his shoe the width of a coin. The tablet discovered it had other hobbies.
The host held still like a professional who knows when not to save a room.
Evan stayed with verbs. "I work with people I respect," he said, voice even. "That includes not letting anyone be used as my storyline."
"Names, not vibes," Rita breathed, and typed.
Vivian's smile at the wing kept its weather. "Why now," she said softly enough to be deniable, loud enough for the room to want the answer.
I took my half step into the minute because it belonged to the work. "Consent is how publicity stays human," I said. "It's the difference between a question and a dare. If you don't have it, you don't have a scene."
Serena stayed in the far wide like a person with a schedule and a spine. She did not look toward us. She let the room be about the rule, not a face it could buy.
Aisha's voice threaded in at the collarbone edge of my hearing. "Compliance logged," she said. "Window captured. Any later cut that omits it reads manipulative in Standards' notes."
Victor's hand lifted a millimeter - the sound man's nod. The mix did not cheat. When Evan said consent, the room stayed present under him. No dip. No doubt.
The host glanced at his clock cue and then chose correct over clever. He didn't press why now. He let sentences be enough.
Vivian's assistant tried one last trick - a graphics pre-load that wanted to say clarify under the window. Rita's pen tapped once on her phone like a tiny gavel. The pre-load remembered the email that had teeth and did not fire.
Ten seconds.
Evan used them like a craftsman. "If you see a 'look back' with music that guesses feelings," he said, "assume editing. Not my consent."
Five.
The hedge breathed. The host found his close. "That is the minute," he said. "Thank you both."
"Cut," the floor said, and the word, for once, behaved.
The tally cooled. The room remembered it had chairs. Air came back into its cheaper shapes. The window plate faded to a smaller square on a smaller monitor where it would spend the rest of its evening being a receipt.
Victor exhaled like a man who likes when physics keeps its promises. "Good wind," he said to nobody and to the world.
Aisha again, cleaner now. "Standards pinged acknowledgment in-channel," she said. "Consent lower-third approved as used. Any clip seeded without the plate gets flagged. I'll send a line to the void to make their memory longer."
"Send," Rita said, and already had.
Boone loosened the idea of his shoulders by a quarter inch. The aisle remembered how to be a corridor. Serena's handler touched her elbow with two fingers - human, not plot - and their wide moved like a calm idea.
Nolan's voice tried oil. "Off record," he called, too loud for the phrase to work, "America just heard a lot of editing talk. A yes or no would be faster."
"Credential," Boone said, and the aisle obeyed him.
The host slid his stack of cards under his arm like a man who keeps his hands from making trouble. He caught my eye. "That felt human," he said quietly. "Television forgets that sometimes."
"Rooms, not weather," I said.
Vivian stepped forward a polite two paces, her phone face-up, the light under her chin making a halo if you squinted wrong. "Beautiful," she said, and meant useful. "We'll put a clean sizzle around that."
Rita's mouth did not move. "With the window on it," she said.
"With the window," Vivian echoed, as if the noun were a garnish.
Her screen changed and she let me see it because sometimes power enjoys being generous. review_v5 glowed at the top of a tiny inbox. Under it, a draft card winked: "Is he taken?" YES/NO poll, brand font friendly, little hearts for people who like games.
"We're running this in two," Vivian said, friendly, stainless. "It reads as audience engagement, not a claim."
The bay light past Boone glanced off the chain at Evan's throat. He didn't move toward the phone. He didn't move away.
Rita's thumb flicked. The screenshot landed. "Logged," she said.
Vivian's smile didn't change. "Two minutes," she repeated, and the corridor got ready to be weather again.