Chapter Thirty-Four: The Midnight Broadcast

One thing that kept repeating in her mind since coming back to the place she grew up; the Middle Order was too clean.

Tara had never noticed it before in childhood—not in the way she did now.

The streets were wide and sterile, every building standing like a monument to order. No cracks in the pavement, no peeling paint, no sign that anything here had ever been touched by time or ruin.

It was unsettling.

Even now, moving through the outskirts of the city, she could feel it—that eerie perfection pressing down on her, suffocating.

She didn't belong here.

Not anymore.

Landon led them deeper into the abandoned district, his movements quick and sure, keeping close to the shadows. The others followed, their tension palpable.

Tara exhaled softly, glancing at the crumbling structure ahead.

It was a place she never would have thought to look.

A failed lab.

A ghost of an experiment.

No one came here. Not even Bailon.

It was where Landon was created.

And it had been left to rot.

⸻

The old facility sat on the outskirts of the city, far enough from the towering government buildings but still close enough to hear the hum of the Convocation Hall in the distance.

It stood like an open wound in the otherwise pristine skyline—walls cracked, windows shattered, nature trying to reclaim what was never meant to exist in the first place.

Landon sighed, running a hand through his curls. His expression darkened with something almost... nostalgic.

"This place was abandoned the day after your father found you, Tara."

Tara turned to him sharply. "What?"

Landon exhaled, shaking his head. "I remember that day distinctly. I was two years old, but I remember Bailon crushing everything. Not understanding why the human president would care about supernatural affairs." His voice was quiet, distant. "It was terrifying being on the receiving end of his anger."

The weight of his words settled over her like a stone.

Bailon had reacted.

To her.

Even as a baby, she had been important enough for him to destroy something over.

Tara didn't know what to do with that information.

She swallowed, pushing it down for now.

Landon shoved open the rusted door. "Not much, but it'll do."

The inside was worse.

Empty hallways stretched into darkness, the air thick with the scent of dust and metal. Rusted gurneys sat abandoned in corners, long-dried stains decorating the floor beneath them.

The walls were lined with old observation rooms, their two-way mirrors cracked, their steel doors left half-open.

Tara shuddered.

She didn't ask.

She wasn't sure she wanted the answers.

Landon didn't look at her as he stepped inside, his shoulders tense.

"It's safe," he said simply. "No one comes here anymore."

Ballad let out a slow whistle, stepping past a broken surgical table. "I can see why."

Collin wrinkled his nose. "This place smells like burnt metal and bad memories."

Lottie grinned, tossing something heavy onto the floor.

Tara blinked.

A television.

She had stolen a whole damn television.

"I figured we should hear it straight from the bastard's mouth," Lottie said, nudging the screen with her boot.

Skye smirked faintly. "And where, exactly, did you steal that from?"

Lottie waved a hand. "Some fancy lobby. They won't miss it."

Ballad grinned. "I love you."

Lottie winked.

Tara barely heard them.

Because outside, the streets were beginning to quiet.

The announcement was coming.

———

The television buzzed to life.

The screen flickered, static crackling over a city-wide broadcast.

And then—

Bailon's face appeared.

He stood at the center of the Convocation Hall, the great banners of Erié-n-Boré hanging high above him. The hall was filled with officials, soldiers, and civilians alike—each of them waiting, watching.

His presence commanded silence.

His voice was smooth. Measured. Practiced.

"People of Erié-n-Boré."

The words echoed across the city, projected from every screen, every radio, every device.

Tara could hear the murmur of the crowd outside, their breaths held in anticipation.

"We stand at a precipice."

A pause.

The screen flickered—

And then, her face appeared.

Tara's stomach turned.

It was her.

But not really.

The image had been altered, distorted—her features darkened, her eyes hollow, her face flickering like a broken film reel, shifting between forms.

She looked feral.

Monstrous.

"We have been deceived," Bailon continued, his voice dripping with controlled sorrow. "Among us walks a being who does not belong. A threat to our people. A danger to our future."

Tara's hands curled into fists.

The others were silent.

Even Ballad's usual smirk was gone.

"Tara Stele is not Middle Order, she is not Fluorescent, she is not Shade, and she is, most definitely, not Human."

The air in the safe house seemed to tighten.

"She is something else entirely. And she must be stopped."

The city roared.

Tara's pulse thundered in her ears.

Bailon's eyes softened—his expression one of calm control.

"She is a danger to herself and those around her. But we are merciful."

A pause.

A final blow.

"She will be granted a trial."

Tara's breath caught.

"Three days from now, in the heart of the city, she will stand before the people—and be judged."

A trial.

Not an execution.

Because Bailon didn't want her dead.

He wanted her to break.

He wanted her to lose control.

He wanted to make her the villain.

"Tara Stele, if you are watching this—I am giving you a choice."

"Surrender yourself willingly, and you will be granted a fair trial."

"Resist—and we will have no choice but to burn the shadows from this world."

The broadcast cut to black.

And the city held its breath.

The silence in the safe house was suffocating.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Then—

Ballad cursed. "That son of a—"

Landon was already pacing, his hands pulling at his curls, his breath coming sharp. "A trial? He's turning this into a damn spectacle."

Collin scoffed. "You think he wants a trial? He wants a fucking execution."

Talulah's arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her jaw set. "He knows what she is."

Tara swallowed hard, her nails pressing into her palms.

Because she knew it, too.

This wasn't about justice.

This wasn't about truth.

This was about fear.

Bailon wanted the entire world to be afraid of her.

And if he got what he wanted—

She would become the thing he was trying to paint her as.

A monster.

A weapon.

She exhaled slowly.

Skye was still watching the screen, his expression unreadable.

Then, finally—he turned to her.

His voice was quiet. "What do you want to do?"

Tara didn't know.

For the first time in her life, she had no idea what the right move was.

Because no matter what she did—Bailon was already winning.

And the clock was ticking.