Page 76 of Run Wild Omega

“The press will report what we give them, because we’re giving them something clean and quotable. The alternative is speculation, and speculation doesn’t fill airtime as efficiently as a prepared statement from the rescue team.” Daniel checks his watch. “We go in two minutes. Memorize the key points. Don’t read from the paper—it looks defensive. Speak naturally, like you’re briefing a colleague.”

I read the statement twice more, committing the structure to memory. Open with the facts: the date, the location, the weather conditions. Describe the cornice release in technical terms that establish the unpredictability of the event. Acknowledge the rescue, thank the hospital and the flight crew, and close with a single line about the ongoing recovery of the victim—unnamed, gender-neutral, reduced to a clinical status update.

It’s brilliant, actually. Daniel has taken Tess entirely out of the story. She’s not a reckless Omega guide. She’s not even a person. She’s a data point—a victim of weather, nothing more. And by stripping her of identity in this statement, he’s denied the press the thing they feed on: a face to attach to the outrage.

“Two minutes,” Daniel says again, straightening his tie. “Remember—no reactions. No eye contact with specific reporters. Look at the cameras, not the people behind them. And when you’re done, walk straight back to this door. I’ll be holding it open.”

We move.

The side corridor is empty—hospital security has cleared it, barricading the intersecting hallways with portable barriers. A uniformed officer nods at Daniel and unlocks the door that leads to the courtyard.

The noise hits us like a wall.

It’s not just reporters. There are bloggers, vloggers, freelance photographers, and a handful of people who look like they’ve driven here just to watch. The moment the three of us step through the door, a roar of voices erupts—shouting our names, shoving microphones forward, cameras firing in rapid bursts that turn the afternoon light into a strobe.

I fix my gaze on the podium, thirty feet ahead. One foot in front of the other. Breathe. This is a data delivery mechanism. Nothing more.

Wyatt steps up to the microphone first. His hand is steady. His face is carved from stone.

“On the evening of December fourteenth, a wind-loaded cornice released on North Ridge at approximately nine thousand five hundred feet,” he says, his voice carrying over the noise with the practiced authority of a man who’s given hundreds of field briefings. “The release was triggered by a combination of record snowfall accumulation and sustained wind loading that exceeded the parameters of the pre-existing stability assessment.”

He runs through the meteorological data—the snowfall totals, the wind speeds, the delayed NWS advisory. He doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t hesitate. He speaks like he’s reading a topographic map, every detail precise and purposeful.

Dylan takes over for the rescue portion, describing the extraction in clinical terms. He mentions the helicopter, the flight crew, the hospital trauma team. He thanks them by name.

Then I step forward for the closing.

“The victim is recovering and is in stable condition,” I say. “We ask that the media respect the family’s privacy during this time. No further questions.”

I step back from the mic.

The shouting intensifies. “Captain Callahan, is it true the victim is an unbonded Omega?” “Miles Graham, did the guide ignore weather warnings?” “Wyatt, why did you allow an Omega on that ridge?”

No eye contact. No reactions. I turn, matching Dylan’s pace as we walk back toward the door. Daniel is there, holding it open, his hand firm on the frame as cameras flash in our faces.

The door closes. The noise muffles to a distant hum.

Daniel locks it behind us and lets out a breath.

“That was clean,” he says. “All three of you. No mistakes.”

“It won’t matter,” I say, because it won’t. I’ve studied media dynamics enough to know that a controlled statement is a temporary dam, not a permanent solution. “The narrative is already established. One press conference doesn’t erase four million views.”

Daniel’s expression tightens. He gestures for us to follow him back down the corridor, away from the door. “I know. Which is why I need to tell you something, and I need you to understand it before we go back upstairs.”

We stop in an empty waiting area near the elevators. The chairs are orange plastic, the walls a dingy beige. A television mounted in the corner is playing the same news segment on mute—our faces on the podium, the headline beneath us already shifting to frame the statement as “damage control.”

“There’s going to be an investigation,” Daniel says.

“Into what?” Wyatt’s voice is flat.

“Into Sweet Creek Adventures. Into the permits, the certifications, the insurance coverage, the incident protocols. The law firm representing the corporate group filed a motion this morning requesting a formal state inquiry into the company’s operational compliance.”

Dylan’s jaw clenches. “On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that the company may have been operating with inadequate liability coverage for the type of excursion being conducted. And they may be right.”

The silence that follows is heavy.