The promise of nineteen hundred rode the corridor like a quiet drum. We moved with it. The hedge behind us practiced patience; the bay ahead practiced utility.
"Window plate is locked," Rita said, phone at sternum height where truth lives. "Consent lower-third approved by Standards. Any 'clarify' tag gets paired with the caption window."
"Route," Boone said. The hallway listened and became a straight line.
Victor ghosted up with a battery like a small kindness. "Swap," he said. He didn't touch skin. The pack clicked into its seat. "Wind will help you if you don't whisper."
"Copy," I said.
Aisha's voice came through like paper finding a spine. "Standards acknowledged the live mini as cure," she said. "Any doctored cut aired after must carry the plate, or we file as misleading. Vivian has that email in two folders now."
Vivian materialized at the next corner with a smile that arranges weather. "We are friends to air," she said. "Keep the minute human. Camera learns better that way."
"No unannounced intimacy," Rita said, as if reading from a recipe. "Consent on record. Caption window on screen."
"Of course," Vivian said, and her eyes did math.
We hit the seam where paint pretends to be a neighborhood. The hedge waited for its close-up like an extra with tenure. A PA with clock for a face rotated toward us. "In ninety," she said.
Evan appeared at the aisle, not arriving, just being where time was load-bearing. He kept a palm visible, nothing in it. Chain at his throat quiet. Eyes on the stage, not the lens.
"Clock," he said, voice low enough to respect rooms. "I want thirty inside the minute for a solo statement."
Rita didn't blink. "Conditions," she said. "Consent literal on lower-third; no unannounced intimacy spoken; caption window on screen while you speak. No cutaways."
"Accepted," Evan said. "I'll speak verbs. No labels."
"Good," I said. "Make it verifiable."
"Verifiable," he repeated.
Nolan tried to grow from the baseboard. "If he's clarifying," he said toward anyone's mic, "I can give context. America loves clear men."
Boone took one step and the idea of Nolan stopped being urgent.
A producer in black slid a headset away from her ear. "We need a 'why now' beat," she told air. "Forty words max."
"Watch your nouns," Rita said. "Addendum governs your nouns."
The host joined with a stack of cards and a jaw that knows cameras. "I toss 'one clean minute on consent and publicity,' then I shut up," he said. "If anyone makes a face, I pretend I didn't see it."
"Good," I said.
The hedge let Camera A test focus on its leaves. Victor rolled a breath of room tone into memory. The window plate glowed on a monitor like context learning posture. The lower-third sat where it should: Consent Statement.
Serena and her handler held the far wide. She was human, not bait. We kept her that way.
"Let's get the sentence right," I said to Evan, soft enough for bone. "You are not clarifying gossip. You are naming your consent. Say what you do, not who you are."
He nodded, the small kind. "Try me."
"'I haven't consented to romantic staging tonight or to any cut implying it,'" I said. "'If you see one, treat it as a creative decision, not my consent.'"
He tested it in his mouth and shaved it neat. "I haven't consented to romantic staging tonight or to any cut implying it. If you see one, treat it as editing, not my consent."
"Editing, not my consent," Rita echoed, typing it into a rectangle she can feed to rooms.
The producer hovered a new word like a child showing a butterfly. "Can we exchange 'editing' for 'creative'," she asked. "Less… pointed."
"'Editing' is verifiable," I said. "It's a department. 'Creative' is a vibe."
"Names, not vibes," Rita said. "Keep 'editing'."
The producer put her butterfly back.
"In sixty," the floor manager said, windmilling a low circle. "We'll do a logo tap after."
Vivian looked across the hedge like a person evaluating glassware. "We'll let you have your minute," she said. "After that, the hour breathes again."
"Breathing is not the same as bending," Rita said, but she smiled like she had a pocket knife.
Victor touched the cable at my shoulder, last kindness. "No whisper," he said.
"Wind is my friend," I said.
Evan found his vector at my right, not touching geometry he hadn't paid for. He held the air like a beam. He looked at me, not for permission, but to be sure we were drawing the same map.
"Anything else," he asked. "Before the light owns our nouns."
"Work," I said.
"Work," he said.
Vivian gestured with two fingers. The assistants lined up like punctuation. The prompt tablet tried to peek around a flag and show a face it thought had rights. PROMPT: Ask about marriage blinked and looked surprised to find itself unwelcome.
Rita's thumb flashed. The face learned humility.
"Thirty," the floor manager said.
Aisha's voice warmed the sleeve of my jacket. "If lower-third deviates, say window out loud," she said. "If anyone drifts into labels, say consent and look at Camera A. The log will treat that as a plate."
"Copy," I said.
The host practiced not fidgeting. The hedge played boundary. The air remembered how to be cool without being cold.
"Fifteen," the floor said.
I flicked my left hand into its curl. The cuff learned the habit and kept it. Evan set his shoulders the way a man does when he will carry something and not drop it.
Vivian's smile stayed. It never goes first.
"Ten," the floor said.
The window plate lit, white and sure. The lower-third preloaded and waited. The minute stood up.
"Five," the floor said.
The host's smile arranged itself for travel. "Welcome back," he said to the lens that pays his rent. "One clean minute on consent and publicity. Evan Hale joins our advisor for a statement."
The tally turned red and stayed there like a choice.
Evan lifted his chin, not high, just enough to tell the sentence where to live.
He chose live.