February blurred.
Snow, then slush, then gray piles of dirty ice lining the streets. The PAO Act creeped through council committees, linguistically mutilated and resuscitated half a dozen times. TerraNova pushed incremental updates. CityWatch live-tweeted every oversight meeting.
Olivia wrote.
About audits. About small community groups vying for seats on the oversight board. About how “open APIs” in practice required technical literacy most neighborhood activists didn’t have, and what that meant for power.
Each piece carried the disclosure line now. It became like a scar—visible, acknowledged, no longer tender every time she saw it.
The grace period she’d promised Jake—she honored it outwardly.
No more Manny’s. No more late-night bar meetings. No more alone-in-his-apartment scenarios tempting fate.
They texted occasionally. Short. Often about work. Sometimes about food.
> (Jake) > Carla made me eat a salad for lunch. Says I have to “look less like I live on Red Bull” for the next op-ed shoot.
> (Olivia) > Listen to her. The city deserves cheekbones, not a coronary.
Occasionally, he sent something that slipped outside that lane.
> (Jake) > Saw a kid coding on a busted laptop in the library today. Thought of you. > And me. > And us arguing over whether my variable names were pretentious.
She would stare at those texts longer.
Reply with something deflective.
> (Olivia) > They probably were. > Don’t infect the next generation with “EquityAdjustedRoutingCoefficient.”
Underneath the routines, something simmered.
She felt it when she re-read her own words about him. A note of… tenderness, maybe, under the critique.
She felt it when she saw his face on a screen and remembered how his mouth had felt on hers over ice.
She buried it under work.
Until work—and the story—forced the simmer to a boil.
It started with a leak.
An internal city memo, sent anonymously to her Metro inbox, subject line: **Re: PAO Implementation – Backchannel Concerns.**
She clicked.
The body was short. A forwarded chain of emails between Hart’s office and a handful of agency heads.
> From: Hart > Subject: RE: PAO logistics > > We need to consider the messaging. While public rhetoric has been very “we must regulate the giants,” privately some of our partners (including TerraNova) are indicating that open APIs and escrow access will be contingent on significant liability protections. > > We cannot be seen as caving to demands from a single vendor. At the same time, we cannot afford for Morrison to pull his support and trigger a crisis of confidence in the grid. > > Ideas?
Her breath caught.
Attached was a draft “compromise amendment”—one that preserved open APIs in theory, but in practice gave TerraNova an effective veto over who could plug into their systems.
Behind the scenes, city hall was already carving exceptions.
She read it twice.
Then again.
A slow, hot anger rose under her sternum.
They were doing it again.
Wrapping public interest in private language.
Sacrificing long-term structural integrity for short-term calm.
She forwarded the memo to Laura.
> Anonymous city source. > Backchannel on PAO. > You see the carve-out?
Laura’s reply was immediate.
> I see it. > You want it?
Her fingers flew.
> Yeah.
> Hit it hard, Laura wrote. > And get confirmation. > We don’t run with “anonymous memo” as our only proof. > Talk to Hart. Talk to Reyes. > And, yeah, talk to Morrison.
Olivia’s jaw clenched.
> Ethics note: this one… may cross some lines, she wrote.
> Then we walk very carefully, Laura replied. > But we walk. > You wanted to write about systems, not soap operas. > Here’s your system.
***
Hart looked tired when she confronted him in his office.
Less polished. Tie loosened. Eyes shadowed.
“This is an internal draft,” he said, glancing at the printed memo in her hand. “You know we throw a lot of language around before anything becomes law.”
“Language that gives TerraNova an effective gatekeeping role over any future competitors,” she said. “That’s a little more than wordsmithing, Commissioner.”
He sighed.
“Off the record?” he said.
She considered. Nodded.
“Off.”
“We’re trying not to blow up the grid,” he said quietly. “You saw what happened with one timing glitch. Imagine what happens if we introduce multiple untested actors into the core systems at once. We need… guardrails.”
“Guardrails are one thing,” she said. “Handing the steering wheel back to the person you’re supposedly regulating is another.”
He met her gaze.
“Do you really think I’m in bed with Morrison?” he asked. “That I’d… sell the city out for his comfort?”
“I think you’re scared,” she said. “Of being the guy in charge when the lights go out. And I think fear makes people do stupid things.”
He let out a humorless laugh.
“You’re not wrong,” he said. “But I also think ideological purity is a luxury for people who don’t get the 3 a.m. phone call when a substation fails.”
“The answer to that isn’t to write the bill so the person who built half the substations gets to decide who can touch them,” she said.
He rubbed his temples.
“Reyes saw your memo?” he asked.
“I haven’t shared it yet,” she said. “You’re first.”
He exhaled.
“She’s going to kill me,” he said. “On the record.”
“Probably,” she said. “That’s between you two.”
“What do you want from me, Olivia?” he asked. “An admission on tape that we’re weakening the bill? A soundbite about ‘pragmatism’ you can hang me with?”
“I want you to say, on the record,” she said, “that the city will not give any private company veto power over its own oversight.”
He stared at her.
“Words don’t mean much without the votes,” he said.
“They’re a start,” she said.
He looked down at his desk. At the draft amendment.
Back up at her.
“On the record,” he said, “the city will not give any private company veto power over its own oversight.”
She wrote it down.
Knew it would come back to haunt him—or her—later.
***
Reyes was… less measured.
“Of course they’re trying to sneak carve-outs in,” she said, pacing her office, memo in hand. “Hart doesn’t want to be left holding the bag if Morrison balks. They’re all so used to deferring to ‘expertise’ when it comes with a nice suit and a venture fund behind it.”
“Does Jake know about this language?” Olivia asked.
Reyes snorted. “He probably wrote it.”
“Maybe,” Olivia said. “Maybe not.”
Reyes gave her a look.
“You still think there’s a line he won’t cross,” she said. “That’s sweet.”
“It’s not about sweetness,” Olivia said. “It’s about accuracy. If I’m going to write that he’s colluding to gut your bill, I want proof.”
“Then get it,” Reyes said. “And when you do, I’ll give you all the righteous quotes you want.”
***
She saved him for last.
Partly because she wanted to have as much context as possible.
Partly because she knew this could be a fracture point.
She texted him first.
> Need to talk. > In person, if possible. > No PR.
He responded within a minute.
> That sounds… ominous.
> Tonight? > I can be wherever.
> Neutral ground, she wrote. > No towers. No Manny’s. > There’s a community room at the South Side center. > 8 p.m. > Just us.
> Okay, he replied. > I’ll bring coffee. > You bring whatever is about to blow up my week.
***
The community center at night felt different.
Quieter. The echo of kids’ laughter replaced by the hum of vending machines and distant street noise. The gym’s fluorescents were off; the lobby lights dimmed.
Olivia sat at a round table in the windowless community room, memo printout flat in front of her.
Jake arrived three minutes early, two takeaway cups in hand, breath fogging in the cold.
“You look like bad news,” he said, setting one coffee in front of her.
“Accurate,” she said.
He sat. No suit. Just a dark sweater and jeans. He looked tired. The kind of bone-deep fatigue that no amount of caffeine could fix.
“What is it?” he asked.
She slid the memo across.
His eyes scanned.
His jaw tightened.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
“So you *didn’t* write this,” she said.
“No,” he said. “Hart’s wording, probably. Maybe legal. I don’t know. We’ve had… conversations about liability. About not wanting rogue plugins in the system. But this…” He tapped the provision. “‘TerraNova shall have sole discretion to approve third-party integrations to core infrastructure code.’ That’s…”
“A veto,” she said.
He didn’t argue.
“On the record, Hart says the city won’t do this,” she said. “Off the record, he’s scared of losing your support. Reyes is pissed. Activists are going to go nuclear when this leaks. I… need to know if you’re behind it.”
His eyes flashed.
“You think I pushed for this?” he asked. “After everything we’ve just done to open up?”
“I think you have a lot of influence,” she said. “And a lot to lose if the barrier to entry drops.”
He let out a harsh laugh.
“Max would love this language,” he said. “So would half our investors. It locks in our position and lets us pretend we’re altruistic caretakers instead of gatekeepers.”
“So?” she pressed.
“So,” he said, “I told Hart, in person, last week, that any final bill that gives us effective veto power is a nonstarter. For me.”
Her brows rose. “You did?”
“Yes,” he said. “He said—and I quote—‘We need to see what flies with the council.’ I assumed he’d float it and watch it die. Not… slip it into an internal draft and pray no one noticed.”
She snorted. “He should know better by now.”
“I’ll call him,” Jake said. “Tell him, on the record, that TerraNova opposes this language.”
“On the record?” she repeated.
“Yes,” he said. “You can quote me. ‘Any bill that hands TerraNova veto power over its own oversight is not accountability; it’s theater.’”
Her pen practically ran across the page.
“You’ll piss off your board,” she said.
“Add it to the list,” he said. “They’re already annoyed about the APIs. Might as well complete the set.”
“Why?” she asked, sharper than she meant.
“Why what?” he said.
“Why keep… undercutting your own leverage?” she said. “Open APIs. Now this. You could quietly let Hart do this and then shrug and say, ‘We’re just following the law.’ Do you get off on making your life harder?”
His mouth twisted.
“You think this is about me being some kind of masochist?” he asked.
“Isn’t it?” she shot back. “You keep choosing the path that hurts you.”
“And helps the city,” he said. “That’s the part you keep pretending is optional.”
Her temper flared.
“The city doesn’t need you to be a martyr,” she said. “It needs you to be effective.”
“I can be both,” he said.
“No,” she said. “You can’t. Not forever. At some point, you’re going to burn out. Or fuck up. Or both. And we’re all still going to be living in the city your code helped build.”
He stared at her.
“That’s why I want oversight,” he said. “So when I fuck up, there’s a net.”
“Then stop trying to hold up the net and swing on it at the same time,” she snapped.
Silence snapped between them.
He leaned back, ran a hand through his hair.
“Why are you really mad?” he asked.
“Because,” she said, “I am so tired of writing about men who think if they just work hard enough and hurt themselves enough, they can fix systems that are designed to chew them up.”
His gaze softened.
“This isn’t about me,” he said quietly.
“No,” she said. “It’s about… my uncle on a ladder. My brother on a site without safety rails. My father in a warehouse that ‘accidentally’ forgot to renew the union contract. It’s about you. Burning yourself on this company. It’s about me, staying up all night hunched over a laptop writing pieces that people skim between cat videos.”
Her voice cracked.
He reached for her hand.
She jerked back.
“Don’t,” she said.
He froze. “Okay,” he said.
They sat, breathing hard.
The hum of the vending machine filled the room.
“I’ll kill this language,” he said finally. “Whatever calls I have to make. You have my word.”
“I believe you,” she said grudgingly.
He looked down at the memo.
“You’re not going to… write that I was behind it anyway, are you?” he asked.
She almost smiled.
“No,” she said. “I’m going to write that the city tried to sneak in a poison pill, and that you, surprisingly, swallowed part of the antidote.”
He snorted. “Your metaphors are getting more violent.”
“You bring it out in me,” she said.
He studied her face.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
“No,” she said. “But I will be.”
He hesitated.
“Can I… ask you something?” he said.
“Always,” she said, weary.
“If… if this story ends soon,” he said. “If the bill passes, the grid stabilizes, the cameras move on… and if ethics does pull you off this beat… would you… consider…?”
She knew what he was asking.
“Us,” she said softly.
“Yeah,” he said.
She swallowed.
“We have a grace period,” she said. “That was the deal. We don’t decide until things are… less on fire.”
He nodded.
“Right,” he said. “I just… every day, it feels like there’s another reason for you to walk away.”
“Every day, there’s another reason for you to run toward your servers,” she retorted. “We’re both stuck in loops.”
“Maybe we can… refactor,” he said.
She sighed.
“Stop turning my emotional life into a codebase,” she said. “It’s creepy.”
He laughed, a ragged sound.
“Sorry,” he said. “Occupational hazard.”
She packed up her notebook, slid the memo back into her bag.
“Thank you,” she said, surprising herself.
“For what?” he asked.
“For not… taking the easy out,” she said. “Even when it would make my job simpler to call you the villain.”
He smiled, tired.
“I don’t want to make your job *too* easy,” he said. “Then what would you do with all that rage?”
“Drink,” she said.
He sobered.
“Don’t,” he said softly. “You’re… more than your anger.”
She looked at him.
“You, too,” she said.
They walked out into the cold.
At the center’s door, he hesitated.
“Olivia,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said.
“If this leak blows back on you… if someone tries to say you’re… biased because you ‘went easy on me’—” his mouth twisted on the phrase, “—I’ll go on record. Say you pushed harder than anyone.”
“I can handle my own reputational damage,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “But… fault tolerance, remember? Backups.”
Her chest warmed, despite the chill.
“Go home, Jake,” she said. “Sleep.”
“You too,” he said.
She watched him walk down the block, shoulders hunched against the wind.
In her pocket, her phone buzzed.
A new email.
Subject: **Ethics Committee Meeting – Thursday**
Her stomach dropped.
This, she realized, as she hit the icy sidewalk, was what load felt like.
When every system—grid, paper, body, heart—was pushed right to the edge of what it could handle.
Fault tolerance could only take you so far.
At some point, something had to give.