Liam nodded, typing the response. Then he paused, his expression shifting. There's one more thing, he said carefully. The reaction online. For every 10 people calling you a hero, there's one calling you an elitist, saying you used your power to punish 300 innocent people just to make a point.
That you could have moved seats and filed a complaint later. That two wrongs don't make a right. Naomi was quiet for a moment. She turned toward the window, looking out at London, sprawling beneath the glass, the river curving, the rooftops layered with centuries. They misunderstand power, she said finally, her voice soft but resonant.
They see it as a weapon. I see it as a responsibility. I see it as a tool. And tools are measured by what they build, not by who they frighten. She turned back to him.
Did I punish 300 people? No. The moment Mrs. Davenport refused to sit, she held that flight hostage with her bigotry. The moment the crew offered to move me, they became her accompllices. The moment the captain was called, the schedule was already in jeopardy.
I didn't create the crisis. I diagnosed it. And the inconvenience those passengers suffered was not a symptom of my response. It was a symptom of a disease that existed long before I boarded that plane. She walked to the window, her reflection ghostlike against the city below.
I remember being 22, Liam. a coach seat to Dallas, middle row. A man beside me spent three hours telling his friend that people like me were affirmative action hires who lowered the bar for everyone. I sat there with my fists clenched so tight my knuckles were white. 3 hours I said nothing. I had no power.
I just absorbed it. And afterward in a hotel room in Texas, I cried. Not from sadness, from the rage of my own silence. She touched the cool glass of the window. I am not 22 anymore.