The invitation arrived at 7:11 a.m.
Plain subject line.
Formal language.
No flattery.
You are invited to provide testimony at the Commission's public hearing.
Jasmine read it twice, then forwarded it without comment to the secure group.
Within minutes, replies appeared—not celebratory, not anxious.
Focused.
Confirm scope.
Request disclosure rules.
Clarify evidentiary standards.
This was not escalation by emotion.
This was escalation by structure.
Across the city, Evan received the same invitation while brushing his teeth. He stared at the screen, foam forgotten, heart steady in a way that surprised him.
He had imagined this moment before—thought it would feel heavier.
Instead, it felt precise.
He replied with a single sentence:
> I accept, contingent on full submission of contemporaneous records.
The confirmation came an hour later.
Approved. Records will be entered into evidence.
That word—evidence—changed everything.
At Jasmine's office, the negotiations accelerated.
Calls stacked on calls. Drafts on drafts. Institutions that had once resisted now competed to appear cooperative.
"We're prepared to formalize oversight," one representative said.
"We're open to independent review," said another.
"We can revise access criteria," offered a third.
Jasmine listened.
Then she opened the document she had titled Non-Negotiables.
"There are three conditions," she said calmly. "They're not preferences. They're boundaries."
Silence followed.
"First," she continued, "no access to opportunity may be conditioned on psychological compliance."
A pause. Pens stopped moving.
"Second, all records must be preserved in original form. No summaries. No reinterpretations."
Longer silence.
"And third," Jasmine said, "there must be an independent reporting channel with authority to intervene—not advise."
Someone cleared their throat. "That level of independence is… unusual."
"So was the harm," Jasmine replied.
The call ended without resolution.
That was fine.
Across town, Evan met with a small group at the community center—students, parents, one quiet teacher who sat near the back and said little.
They reviewed his statement line by line.
Not to soften it.
To anchor it.
"Don't explain too much," a parent advised. "Let the facts do their job."
Evan nodded. He had learned that lesson already.
He wasn't there to persuade.
He was there to place something immovable in the record.
That evening, Margaret Hale stood at her window, city lights flickering below. The reports, the drafts, the hearings—everything was converging on a single point.
Lines were being drawn.
She understood now that this phase could not be controlled the way earlier ones had been. Public testimony changed incentives. It fixed narratives in ways that could not be quietly revised later.
An assistant knocked lightly.
"They're asking whether we'll endorse the independent channel," she said.
Margaret did not turn around.
"Not yet," she replied. "We see what they put on the table first."
But she knew.
Delay was losing its power.
Later that night, Jasmine sent Evan a message—not advice, not reassurance.
Just clarity.
> Tomorrow, they will try to trade momentum for moderation. Remember: change that can be reversed isn't change.
Evan read it once.
Then again.
At his desk, he placed his documents in order. Originals on top. Copies behind. Notes last.
He slept deeply.
The next day would not be dramatic.
No shouting. No revelations shouted into silence.
Just a microphone, a record, and words that could not be unsaid.
And once spoken, they would redraw the limits of what any system could claim was negotiable.