Ethan
Noah shows me the text the second I wake up, and I read it twice before the words actually settle, panic threading through the last traces of sleep still clinging to me.
"A reporter," I say. "Already."
"The same blog that covered the fight. And the follow-up interview. And apparently now this too." Noah sits up beside me, phone still in hand, jaw tight. "Guess we should've expected it. Nothing stays quiet on this campus for long."
"What do we do?"
He's quiet a moment, thinking it through with the same steady focus he brought to fixing the dress rehearsal disaster, the venue crisis, every logistical fire we've put out together this semester. "We could ignore it. Let it run however it runs, no comment."
"Or?"
"Or we get ahead of it. Control the narrative instead of reacting to
