Kelly POV
No one ever notices the person holding the door open.
They notice the ones walking through it, the generals, the psychics, the men with medals and blood on their hands. They notice explosions, speeches, betrayals. They do not notice the hands braced against the frame, the shoulders taking the weight, the quiet calculation of how long you can keep standing before the hinges tear free.
By the time the first reporter asked me if my brother had finally lost control, I had already been awake for twenty-three hours.
The press room smelled like recycled air and ambition. Cameras hummed softly, a predator's purr. The lights were too bright, bleaching everything into harsh certainty. I stood at the podium in a slate-gray suit I didn't remember choosing, hands folded loosely as if I were calm. As if my heart wasn't beating fast enough to bruise my ribs.
