The room wanted blood. They wanted a spectacle, a public unmaking, a clean narrative they could hashtag and pass around like proof that justice had finally learned to roar. She could have given it to them. Instead, she did something far more dangerous, something that made even the cameras feel unwelcome. She chose a kind of mercy that refused to be perforated into content, a tenderness that did not audition for anyone’s belief. No performance. No righteousness. Just a woman stepping out of the script that had been waiting to devour her, and turning apology into something that couldn’t be live-tweeted, couldn’t be replayed, couldn’t be owne… Continues…
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