The inquiry did not begin with questions.
It began with posture.
Elias noticed it the moment he stepped into the chamber the way the room arranged itself around him, not physically, but psychologically. Chairs angled slightly away. Eyes that didn't quite meet his. A collective awareness that something fragile was being handled, and no one wanted to be the one who broke it first.
That, Elias knew, was power in its most cautious form.
Damien sat several rows behind him, technically removed from the proceedings, officially uninvolved. Unofficially, every presence in the room knew the connection. Knew the weight of it. Knew that whatever happened here would ripple outward, touching more than one career, more than one carefully constructed authority.
Elias took his seat and folded his hands.
He didn't feel fear.
What he felt was gravity.
The chair of the panel cleared her throat. "This inquiry is convened to assess concerns regarding influence, objectivity, and institutional integrity."
The words were polished. Neutral. Empty enough to hold any conclusion they chose to pour into them.
Elias listened without reacting.
He'd learned long ago that stillness unsettled people more than defiance.
From the viewing area, Damien watched the room with a strategist's eye.
He tracked who leaned forward. Who avoided looking at Elias altogether. Who scribbled notes too aggressively, as if productivity could disguise intent.
They were afraid of being seen choosing sides.
Good, Damien thought.
Fear made people honest in small, revealing ways.
When Elias was finally invited to speak, he stood slowly not because he needed the time, but because it forced the room to wait for him.
"I understand the concern," Elias said evenly. "Institutions rely on trust. Trust requires scrutiny."
The chair nodded. "Then you welcome this process."
"I welcome clarity," Elias replied. "Processes are only useful if they produce it."
A subtle shift rippled through the panel.
That hadn't been the answer they'd expected.
Questions followed, measured at first.
They asked about Elias's past work, his collaborations, his advisory roles. They asked about overlap. About proximity. About perception.
Elias answered each one with precision, never volunteering excess, never shrinking from implication. He named facts. He defined terms. He refused to speculate about motives that were not his own.
When the question finally came inevitable, sharpened by anticipation it landed with deliberate weight.
"Do you believe your personal relationship with Mr. Blackwood compromises your objectivity?"
The room went still.
Elias did not look at Damien.
He looked directly at the panel.
"No," he said.
The simplicity of the answer unsettled them.
"Why not?" another panelist pressed.
"Because objectivity is not the absence of connection," Elias replied. "It's the presence of accountability."
A murmur moved through the observers.
Elias continued, voice steady. "We conflate detachment with integrity because it's easier. It allows us to avoid examining the structures that reward silence and punish dissent."
The chair's expression tightened. "Are you suggesting this inquiry is punitive?"
"I'm suggesting it's reactive," Elias said. "There's a difference."
Julian Vale watched the feed from a private office, fingers drumming once against the desk before going still.
This was not how it was supposed to go.
Elias was meant to defend. To explain. To shrink the scope of his influence until it was manageable again.
Instead, he was expanding the frame.
Julian leaned back, eyes narrowing.
You're forgetting your place, he thought.
But even as the thought formed, another followed unwanted, unwelcome.
Or perhaps it's shifting.
The inquiry recessed briefly.
Elias stepped into the corridor alone, the quiet there almost disorienting after the density of the chamber. He exhaled slowly, not from relief, but recalibration.
Damien appeared moments later, as if drawn by gravity rather than permission.
"You're doing damage," Damien said softly.
Elias met his gaze. "To the narrative."
"To Julian," Damien corrected.
Elias considered that. "Same thing."
They stood close, not touching, acutely aware of the cameras that were not supposed to be there.
"This is costing you," Damien said.
Elias's expression softened. "You don't get to take ownership of my choices."
Damien almost smiled. "Fair."
Then, more quietly, "I just don't want you paying alone."
Elias held his gaze. "I'm not."
When the inquiry resumed, the tone had shifted.
The panel pressed harder now, less interested in optics, more intent on control. Hypotheticals replaced specifics. Language blurred.
Elias noticed the pivot instantly.
They weren't trying to uncover misconduct.
They were trying to draw a line and decide which side of it he belonged on.
"Would you step away from advisory roles if asked?" the chair demanded.
Elias paused.
"Under what justification?" he asked calmly.
"For the sake of stability."
Elias nodded slowly. "Stability that requires erasure is not stability. It's suppression."
A sharp inhale from somewhere behind him.
The chair's patience thinned. "You're being evasive."
"No," Elias said. "I'm being exact."
By the time the session adjourned for the day, tension clung to the room like humidity.
No conclusions were reached. No resolutions offered.
That, Elias knew, was intentional.
Uncertainty was leverage.
As he exited, reporters shouted questions he ignored. Damien fell into step beside him, shielding without appearing to.
In the elevator, the doors closed, and silence finally claimed them.
Damien exhaled first. "They're pushing toward an ultimatum."
"Yes," Elias said. "And hoping I'll flinch."
Damien looked at him. "Will you?"
Elias met his eyes without hesitation. "No."
The elevator descended.
So did the illusion that this could end quietly.