The industry wanted clarity.
Fans wanted answers.
Reporters wanted a headline that would crack the internet in half.
But Aria Lane?
She wanted noodles.
And because of that, her press conference became the single most chaotic Q&A of the year.
The Media Storm
The event hall overflowed with journalists holding microphones like weapons.
Flashes popped the moment Aria stepped onto the small stage—messy ponytail, oversized hoodie, expression suggesting she'd rather nap than talk.
Daniel followed behind her looking like a man walking to his own funeral.
The moderator tried his best.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please keep questions short and polite—"
A reporter stood before the sentence finished.
"MISS LANE! Are you or are you not ex-military?!"
Daniel's soul left his body.
Aria sat down, adjusted the mic, and said in a calm, monotone voice:
"Next question."
The room exploded.
"THAT'S NOT A DENIAL!"
"WHAT TRAINING DO YOU HAVE?!"
"WHO TAUGHT YOU THOSE REFLEXES?!"
Aria turned to Daniel.
"Is this about the elbow again?"
Daniel whispered, trembling, "Yes. Everything is about the elbow now."
Her Perfectly Useless Answers
A journalist cleared his throat and tried again.
"Miss Lane, your survival footage suggests specialized tactical knowledge. Care to comment?"
Aria shrugged.
"Care to define 'specialized'?"
"…combat experience."
"Define 'combat.'"
"Miss Lane—"
"Define 'experience.'"
The reporter's eye twitched.
Someone dropped their pen.
Daniel pressed both palms to his face.
Another reporter jumped in:
"Your reflexes are unusually fast—faster than professional athletes. Why?"
Aria blinked.
"Good hydration."
Daniel nearly fell out of his chair.
A third asked:
"There's a theory you received elite training. Is it true?"
She took a sip of water.
"Everything online is true."
The room screamed.
Daniel grabbed her mic.
"No it isn't! She is joking! Please put that in bold!"
Aria took the mic back.
"I wasn't."
"ARIA."
"What? They wanted clarity."
"No, they want sanity!"
She Drops a Bomb Without Meaning To
Someone shouted from the back:
"If you're not ex-military, then how do you explain your speed?"
Aria's response was immediate, natural, and devastating:
"Fast metabolism."
The hall went silent.
Then—
"WHY DOES THAT SOUND MORE SUSPICIOUS?!"
"FAST METABOLISM DOES NOT MAKE YOU CATCH DRONES."
"THAT IS NOT HOW BIOLOGY WORKS."
The Press Begs for Real Answers
"Miss Lane!" a desperate reporter called, "Can you just tell us something about your background?"
Aria leaned into the mic, expression sincere.
"I grew up.
I ate food.
I survived high school.
And now I'm here."
"But what about the rest?"
She tilted her head.
"What rest?"
Everyone collectively lost their patience; Aria had none to give.
Daniel's Final Attempt at Damage Control
Daniel seized the mic again.
"To be absolutely clear—Aria Lane is a civilian! A normal, everyday, completely ordinary—"
Aria interrupted,
"I'm not ordinary."
Daniel stared at her with the look of a man who had lost every battle.
She continued casually,
"I'm just me."
The reporters typed so fast, keys sounded like gunfire.
The Press Conference Ends With a Killing Blow
Final question.
"Miss Lane—do you deny having military experience?"
Aria paused.
A long, deliberate pause.
Then:
"I neither confirm nor deny."
Silence.
Every reporter froze.
Daniel turned to stone.
Then—
THE ROOM ERUPTED.
"SHE SAID THE PHRASE! THAT'S THE PHRASE SPIES USE!"
"CONFIRMATION! CONFIRMATION!"
"PUT IT ON HEADLINES NOW!"
Camera flashes roared like applause.
Daniel whispered, pale,
"…Aria. Why. Why would you say that."
She stood, dusted off her hoodie, and replied simply:
"Because it's true."
"NO, IT'S NOT—"
"It's a nice phrase."
"That's not—"
"Daniel," she said, picking up her bag,
"I'm going to lunch."
He slumped into a chair like a dying Victorian widow.
Outside the Conference Hall
As Aria walked toward the exit, reporters shoved microphones at her one last time:
"Miss Lane! Please! One clear statement!"
Aria stopped.
Turned.
And gave them a serene smile.
"Let me know when you figure it out."
Then she walked out the door.
The clip of that smile trended for 72 hours.
Meanwhile… far away
The man from the bar—the one who recognized her—watched the press conference replay on a flickering TV.
The moment she said "I neither confirm nor deny," he exhaled sharply.
Not a laugh.
Not a sigh.
A release of tension he'd been carrying for years.
"…That's her," he whispered.
He reached for his jacket.
Because if she wasn't hiding anymore—
He didn't need to, either.