The greenroom smelled faintly of stale coffee and too much perfume. Bright bulbs lined the mirror, throwing every flaw into merciless clarity. Elena Marquez dabbed a final touch of powder along her jaw, then set the brush down with fingers that trembled more than she wanted to admit.
Through the wall, she could already hear the auditorium alive—applause, laughter, the hum of anticipation. Somewhere out there, hundreds of students, reporters, and cameras waited. Millions more would tune in online. It wasn't just a debate; it was a spectacle.
She closed her eyes, pressing her hands against the table for steadiness. Don't think of the cameras. Don't think of him. Remember why you're here.
A flash of memory intruded—the heavy coffin, the endless clicking of shutters, a voice whispering not an accident. Her stomach coiled. She straightened her blazer, shaking it off.
"Elena," her campaign aide, Marisa, whispered, peeking in. "They're about to introduce you. Ten minutes."
Elena forced a smile. "Plenty of time to regret all my life choices."
Marisa laughed softly, adjusting her earpiece. "You'll be fine. Just… don't let him get under your skin."
Her. Him. The name they didn't need to say.
On the far side of the greenroom, separated by a thin divider, Adrian Hale stood with his own team. His laugh carried over the partition, low and careless.
"I almost feel bad for her," he muttered. His voice wasn't loud, but it was deliberate, pitched to reach ears it shouldn't. "Imagine walking in thinking compassion counts as policy. She'll get eaten alive in five minutes."
A few of his aides chuckled. Elena's jaw tightened.
She rose from her chair, heels clicking against the tile, and stepped to the divider. "Careful, Hale. Overconfidence makes for great headlines. Usually the tragic kind."
The room hushed for a beat. Adrian's silhouette shifted, and then his face appeared around the corner—dark suit, tie knotted perfectly, hair combed with irritating precision. His eyes swept over her, lazy and amused.
"Elena Marquez," he said smoothly, as though he were greeting an old family acquaintance at a gala instead of his sworn rival. "Looking sharp. Guess pity does wonders for ratings."
Her lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl. "And nepotism does wonders for yours. We all have our advantages."
Adrian's smirk deepened, but before he could reply, the muffled voice of the moderator boomed through the wall: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight's debate!"
The crowd roared.
Marisa tugged Elena gently by the elbow. "It's time."
Elena inhaled once, sharp and steadying. Across the room, Adrian adjusted his cuffs, moving toward the stage entrance on the opposite side. Their eyes met in the mirror for the briefest of moments.
Two predators circling the same arena.
Then the curtain began to rise.
The auditorium lights flared as Elena stepped onto the stage, applause breaking like a wave against her. Rows of students leaned forward, phones raised, while cameras tracked her every step. She kept her smile practiced—warm, steady, not too wide. Politicians lived and died by optics, and she refused to give Adrian Hale the satisfaction of catching her falter.
Across the stage, Adrian emerged to equal applause. He soaked it in effortlessly, flashing that easy grin that made anchors call him "charming" and commentators call him "dangerous." He didn't look nervous. He never did.
The moderator, a gray-haired journalist with an over-bright smile, lifted his microphone. "Tonight, we are honored to host two of the most promising young voices in politics: Elena Marquez and Adrian Hale."
The audience clapped again. Elena folded her hands on the podium, her pulse steady despite the rush.
"Let's begin," the moderator said. "First question: What is the single most pressing issue facing this generation, and how would you address it?"
Adrian leaned forward slightly, his voice calm, smooth, calculated. "The issue is stability. Our country is being pulled apart by reckless policies, pandering to emotions instead of reason. What we need isn't idealism—it's discipline. Strong leadership, fiscal restraint, and responsibility. My opponent, of course…" He tilted his head toward Elena with a smile just short of polite. "…prefers feelings over facts."
A ripple of laughter spread through the audience.
Elena's nails dug lightly into her podium. She tilted her chin, smiling as if he hadn't drawn blood. "What I prefer," she said evenly, "is accountability. What my opponent calls 'discipline' is usually just an excuse to ignore people's voices. The most pressing issue is truth—how power twists it, how media sells it, and how corruption silences it. If that makes me idealistic, then I'll happily carry the title."
The students erupted in cheers.
Adrian's smile didn't falter, but his eyes sharpened. He leaned in, voice lower, meant for the cameras to catch. "Spoken like someone who's never had to make a hard choice. Governing isn't about speeches, Elena. It's about keeping the country afloat. Something tells me fairy tales won't cover the debt."
Elena let out a soft laugh, the kind that was sharp enough to sting. "And something tells me parroting your father's speeches won't either. But go on—tell us again how the people should be grateful for the crumbs at your table."
The audience gasped, half-delighted, half-scandalized. Phones shot higher into the air. The moderator cleared his throat nervously, trying to keep order.
But it was too late. The crowd wanted fire, and both of them had struck the match.
The moderator shuffled his cards nervously, clearly trying to guide the tone back toward policy. "Let's move on to media integrity. Both of you have spoken publicly about transparency. How should we ensure truth in journalism?"
Adrian leaned lazily against his podium, the picture of practiced ease. "By recognizing that freedom of the press doesn't mean freedom from responsibility. We live in an age where sensationalism is sold as fact. Politicians—some less experienced than others—are quick to exploit that with emotional appeals." His gaze slid to Elena, pointed and deliberate. "Sometimes trading on their family name to score sympathy."
The words struck like a blade between her ribs. Elena's chest tightened, but she refused to let it show. She curved her lips into something smooth, dangerous.
"Interesting," she said sweetly. "Coming from someone whose entire career is stitched together from his father's pocket. Tell me, Adrian, do you even write your own speeches, or do you just recycle his and hope no one notices?"
The students roared. A few even whistled.
For the first time, Adrian's smile flickered—quick, fleeting, but enough.
He recovered fast, voice dropping lower. "At least I had a father who taught me something worth carrying forward."
The crowd went deathly still.
Elena's breath caught in her throat. She heard the silence before the murmurs, the sharp intake of hundreds of students realizing what had just been said. A line crossed.
Her fingers clenched the podium so tightly her knuckles whitened. "Careful, Hale," she said, her voice steady though her throat burned. "Mocking the dead may play well at your family dinners, but out here? People actually remember who fought for them."
The students exploded. Some clapped furiously, others booed. Phones lit the air like fireflies, recording every second.
The moderator's face was ashen. "Please—please, let's return to policy discussion—"
But it was useless. The match had been thrown. The fire was spreading.
Elena and Adrian locked eyes across the stage, the auditorium spinning away until there was nothing left but her fury and his cold defiance.
The moderator, voice trembling, tried again to salvage control. "Let's—let's move forward to closing statements. Ms. Marquez—"
But Elena wasn't listening. Adrian's smirk across the stage felt like gasoline on an open wound. She could still hear the echo of his jab about her mother, the way he said it without flinching, as if cruelty was second nature.
"Closing statements?" Adrian cut in smoothly, voice dripping arrogance. "Sure. I'll close with this—idealism is cute, Marquez, but if you think shouting louder makes you right, you're already lost. Passion doesn't govern. Discipline does."
The crowd rumbled—half cheers, half jeers.
Elena's blood simmered. She leaned toward her mic, her words a blade sharpened on rage. "Discipline, or blind obedience to your father's leash? If that's your definition, Adrian, maybe we should all just stop pretending you're here for the people. You're here because your last name buys you a podium."
A gasp rippled through the audience.
Adrian's jaw ticked. For the first time all night, his composure cracked, and his voice snapped sharp as glass:
"If you were the last woman alive, I still wouldn't marry you."
The auditorium froze.
Then chaos. Laughter, shock, wild applause. Phones shot higher, cameras flashing like fireworks. The moderator's mouth opened and closed uselessly, his panic drowned out by the roar.
Elena's lips curved, her eyes gleaming. The fury in her chest twisted into something dark, triumphant. She leaned forward, her voice cutting through the noise like a whip:
"Good. Because if you were the last man alive, I'd rather end humanity."
The students howled. Some clapped until their palms were red, others shrieked with laughter. The moderator buried his face in his notes, muttering something about decorum.
But Elena didn't hear him. She was already stepping back from her podium, her pulse thundering, her vision hot with adrenaline. Across the stage, Adrian stood rigid, his fists clenched at his sides, eyes locked on her with that same infuriating defiance.
The moment stretched, seared into every camera lens in the room.
By morning, the clip would be everywhere. Headlines would scream about the heirs of two rival dynasties tearing each other apart on stage. Memes would bloom like weeds. Commentators would call it disgraceful, iconic, scandalous, hilarious.
But right now, in this auditorium, Elena Marquez and Adrian Hale could only see each other—two enemies bound by the kind of hatred that left scars.
The lights dimmed, the debate formally ended, but neither of them moved.