E L A R A

The boardroom feels like it’s been refrigerated. Too bright, too clean, like the night never happened. Like the smoke didn’t scrape my lungs or the mayor didn’t accidentally crown me the island’s hero in front of half the donors.

Adrian walks beside me, silent. He hasn’t said a full sentence since the courtyard. Not about the mayor or the donors or about the way the staff practically orbited me while he stood in the background like someone unplugged his gravity. He’s composed now, but I know composure can be a kind of burn.

Marina is already at the far end of the table, back straight, tablet lined up perfectly with the edge like her whole life depends on symmetry. She gives me a smile that isn’t really a smile, teeth with fear wrapped around them. I sit and my pulse is loud in my ears but I don’t show it.

“Dr. Quinn,” the chairman says, reading my name off a file he didn’t expect to matter. “We’ll begin with your findings.” I stand because staying seated feels like letting someone else drive the story. My tablet lights up, and my throat tightens for a second,  just one breath  but I push through it.

“Before we get into numbers,” I say, “I need to state something plainly. Last night wasn’t an equipment failure.” The fuse box photo fills the screen with charred metal, tool marks and the ugly truth none of them wanted. A few board members lean back like the image carries a smell.

“These aren’t stress fractures or heat warping,” I go on. “Someone tampered with the breaker.” A rustle moves around the table, confusion, denial and fear. Adrian doesn’t move. He just watches me with this steady, unreadable look, like he’s trying to hold something very sharp inside his chest. I flip to the slide showing the timeline: the moment fans died, the moment the heat spiked, the first collapse.

“Staff were seventeen seconds away from a mass-casualty zone,” I say. “Seventeen. That margin isn’t luck, it’s negligence or intent.” Across the room, Marina’s fingers tighten around her stylus hard enough I think it might snap.

Hawthorne, the oldest board member, the one who acts like he’s allergic to bad news clears his throat. “Dr. Quinn, you’re making a serious accusation.”

“I’m stating a fact,” I say. “You can argue with me, or you can argue with the physics of electrical sabotage.” He doesn’t like that answer. His mouth twitches. “Resort equipment fails all the time, perhaps stress from the..”

“It doesn’t fail with screwdriver gouges.” My voice comes out sharper than I planned, but I don’t apologize. “And your maintenance logs show flagged issues dating back weeks.”

Marina jumps in, smiling too brightly. “Let’s not sensationalize. It was a chaotic night and emotions were high..”

“I’m not emotional,” I say. “I’m exhausted, there’s a difference.” A few people shift, uncomfortable, but listening. I pulled up the injury map next: who was where, who went down first, where airflow collapsed.

“This is what chaos looks like,” I say. “And it didn’t come from nowhere.” Hawthorne’s jaw clenches and a younger board member murmurs about liability, about donors. Adrian still hasn’t spoken, but he’s watching me like he’s memorizing every word. What changes the room isn’t anger but it’s the quiet. The kind people make when they realize their version of reality might be wrong.

“Dr. Quinn,” the chairman says slowly, “your data appears… substantial.” Not praise, but the closest thing to respect I’ve heard from him since I arrived on this island. I feel something loosen in my chest, something tight and invisible I didn’t notice until it gave way. Adrian finally speaks, low and even. “Show them the response curve.”

I nod, swipe to the chart, the dip that shouldn’t have been possible, the moment staff followed the emergency protocol I drilled into them last month.

“It bought time,” I say. “Enough to keep people standing until ventilation resumed.”

There’s a soft stir of voices. Someone mutters “impressive.” Another says “that training was hers, wasn’t it?” Marina’s smile dies in slow motion.

“It aligns with Dr. Quinn’s recommendations,” the chairman confirms. He doesn’t look at Marina, instead he looks at me. A warmth hits my throat, not pride, something deeper, something like relief wrapped in vindication. For the first time since I arrived on Seraphine, the board isn’t looking past me. They’re looking at me, and Marina knows it. Adrian shifts forward before anyone else can speak, and the air in the room tilts. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… decisively.

“Dr. Quinn’s analysis matches what I saw last night,” he says, voice even but held together by a thin thread of steel. “And if she hadn’t implemented her protocols, we’d be talking about fatalities.” A few board members flinch and Marina swallows.

Adrian doesn’t look away. “You want liability? Start with the fact that someone sabotaged my resort. Start with the fact that my staff were breathing smoke because warnings were ignored.” Ignored. It lands like a slap. The chairman exhales, long and controlled. “Point taken.”

Adrian glances at me, a quiet acknowledgment, a line drawn, a choice made in full view of the board. They register it immediately: This isn’t Adrian shielding me.  This is Adrian standing with me. I clear my throat, stepping into the space he opened. “There’s one more thing.”

I pull up the final chart,  the emergency-drill compliance rate. It spiked from scattered to nearly perfect in the last month.

“You trained them?” a board member asks.

“Yes. Because we didn’t have a system that met medical standards. So I built one.”

“How often do you recommend these drills continue?” someone asks.

“Monthly. And if we add automated checks to the electrical grid, we cut risk by forty percent.”

The chairman nods. “Dr. Quinn… I underestimated the scope of your role.” Not praise but respect. Across the table, Marina stiffens, she feels the shift like a blow.

She forces a laugh that sounds like it’s been strangled. “We’re drifting off-topic. The public narrative needs stability, not panic. If we highlight sabotage..”

“We highlight the truth,” I say. She blinks at me, and for the first time she looks unsure. Her confidence is slipping in tiny fractures, in the way her hand trembles on her tablet, in the too-fast smile she can’t sustain.

“The press will run wild,” she insists. “Donors will panic. We should frame this as a minor.”

“A minor issue?” Adrian snaps. “People were choking on smoke, Marina.” Her mouth tightens. She turns to the board, but they aren’t looking at her anymore. They’re looking at the data and at me.

“We need consistency in messaging,” she tries again.

“And we will have it,” the chairman says. “Based on Dr. Quinn’s findings.” Marina goes pale.

The chairman squares the papers in front of him. “Next steps: we initiate a formal investigation. Security, engineering, and medical oversight.”

Ethan stands at the back of the room. “We already pulled camera feeds.” Marina tenses. Adrian notices and a flicker in his eyes.

“What about staff interviews?” someone asks.

“I’ll handle the medical ones,” I say. “They’ll talk to me.”

“And PR?” another asks, gesturing toward Marina.

The chairman doesn’t look at her. “PR will follow the investigation’s lead. Not control it.” Her fingers curl but she doesn’t argue because she can’t.

Adrian leans closer to me, voice low. “This is only the beginning.” I know and the whole room knows. A soft buzz breaks the silence, Marina’s phone vibrating on the table. She startles and snatches it too fast. Her eyes skim the screen, and something inside her drops.

Color drains from her face. Completely. She locks the phone instantly, but too late. Adrian saw, I saw and the board saw.

“What is it?” the chairman asks.

“Nothing,” she says too quickly.

Fear clings to her like smoke. Real fear and for the first time, she looks small. Cornered. Like the walls finally shifted and she’s on the wrong side. Adrian leans back, studying her like he’s reading the outline of a confession, and I feel it, cold and certain: Whatever was on that phone… Marina was not expecting it, and it might blow this entire thing open.