"It's from your system," Rowan said.
"And your override logs," Donovan added. "We have your code signatures."
Residents gathering nearby exchanged shocked glances. Some gasped softly; others stared at Vivian with a mounting sense of betrayal.
Vivian stepped back. "This is a misinterpretation. I am responsible for maintaining standards."
"You're responsible for the safety of residents," Donovan cut in, "not harming minors."
Her mask cracked. "She was disrupting—"
"She's a child," Ethan said, voice even.
Vivian flinched, as though the calmness was sharper than shouting.
Donovan stepped forward. "Vivian Cross, you need to come with us for questioning."
Her breath hitched. "This isn't... this can't—"
Rowan stepped in, gently but firmly: "It's over."
Her eyes darted wildly toward the board members, toward passing residents, toward the security cameras she once controlled. None of them could save her now.
As Donovan guided her toward the patrol SUV, murmurs rippled through the crowd: shock, anger, dawning realization. Ethan didn't move. He didn't speak. He simply watched the truth take its rightful place. Today wasn't the end, but it was the moment she finally lost control.
The sheriff's SUV door slammed shut, muffling Vivian's frantic protests as the engine rumbled to life. Residents stood frozen in the courtyard, sunlight catching on their shocked expressions. Some whispered, some folded their arms defensively, a few stepped closer to one another as if proximity might help them make sense of what they had just witnessed. The atmosphere felt stripped, clean of illusion, heavy with truth.