Lyara: The doors of the press room slid open, and the noise hit me before the light did. Camera shutters clicked like hail on glass. Voices layered over each other until they became a single, restless wave. The room smelled like hot electronics, cheap coffee, and the faint metallic tang of nerves. It was larger than it looked on television. Rows of folding chairs stretched from the back wall to the stage, packed shoulder to shoulder with reporters, bloggers, and cameramen who had been waiting. At the front, a low platform held a single podium and a black Ashworth Heights banner. Behind it, the city skyline pressed against floor-to-ceiling windows, gray and indifferent. Three stairs led up to the stage. They looked higher from down here. One reporter saw me first. He shot to his feet, pen in hand. “She’s here!” He shouted, and the entire room turned as one. The flashes came next. White, blinding, relentless. They caught on my earrings, on the silver pin at my lapel, on the poli
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