"You took our money!" Lillian's sob-split voice cracks and she slams a blood-red poster against the iron gate. "Twenty-eight thousand," she screams. "You stole twenty-eight thousand from my fundraiser. You impersonated me and took everything." Hands raise like a jury. Phones lift like torches. Someone chants, "Refund! Refund! Refund!" "Stay on your side of the gate," I say into my phone, not loud but hard enough for the nearest cameras to pick up. I set my phone down on the ledge and flip to live. My face is a mask. My voice sounds calm in the speakers. A student in the front leans over. "Kira, tell us you didn't. Tell us now." I dial 911 with my thumb and keep the line on speaker. "911, what's the location of your emergency?" says the voice, soft and official. "Harbor University main gate," I say. "There is a crowd making threats and accusing me of theft. I need an officer." "We're dispatching," the operator replies. "Are you in immediate danger?" "No," I say. "But the crowd is getting hostile. I want to document." From the left, Ephraim pushes into view. He's wearing our old denim jacket and a face that sells betrayal like an audition. He raises his hands like a plea. "Kira, please—just pay her. This is spiraling." "Pay her what? A ransom?" I say. I keep my tone flat. "So we can lose a million followers to calm one girl's sob