The feed comes up the same way—no music, no introduction.

The room is unchanged, but the energy isn’t. Todderick Davenport Jr. sits forward this time, hands already clasped on the table, tension visible before a word is spoken. Marion Holt watches the door. Lawrence Pike sits still, eyes attentive, already studying.

At the far end, Cito Conarri remains composed, the only constant in the room.

The door opens.

Kirsty McKinney steps in wearing a plain white t-shirt, sleeves rolled, and a pair of dolphin shorts—casual to the point of defiance. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t look around, just walks straight to her chair and sits beside Eric Dane Sr.

As she crosses her legs, Dane exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening just a fraction.

Holt doesn’t wait.

Marion Holt:
“Is that really appropriate attire?”

Kirsty huffs, already annoyed that the question exists.

Kirsty McKinney:
“Chyeah?”

Holt bristles, but TDJr doesn’t look at him, doesn’t acknowledge the exchange at all. His attention is locked on Kirsty.

Todderick Davenport Jr.:
“On Under Review 3.2, you tied Edward Millison to a chair with venetian blind cords and blindfolded him with his own suit jacket.”

A beat.

Todderick Davenport Jr.:
“Mr. Millison is an employee of the Davenport family, not of ICW.”

Another beat—tighter this time.

Todderick Davenport Jr.:
“What were you thinking?”

Kirsty doesn’t hesitate.

Kirsty McKinney:
“He put his hands on me.”

She leans back slightly, completely at ease.

Kirsty McKinney:
“He literally tried to wrestle me. I’m a wrestler. He’s not.”

The room doesn’t settle after Kirsty’s answer. It tightens.

TDJr leans forward slightly, voice still controlled, but with more edge than before.

Todderick Davenport Jr.:
“The point remains—you were attempting to enter a space allotted for the Trust Fund at the time the encounter took place.”

Kirsty shrugs, unconcerned.

Kirsty McKinney:
“I didn’t see a no trespassing sign.”

It’s not defiant. It’s worse—it’s literal.

Pike shifts slightly in his chair, eyes moving between the two.

Lawrence Pike:
“Is the room she entered legally designated as private property?”

TDJr hesitates. Just for a moment—but it’s there.

Todderick Davenport Jr.:
“Well—no. Not formally. But there are privacy concerns—”

Marion Holt:
“Your son isn’t entitled to special treatment.”

That lands harder than anything Kirsty’s said so far.

TDJr’s posture stiffens immediately, jaw setting.

Todderick Davenport Jr.:
“That is not what this is about.”

Pike raises a hand slightly—not to shut anyone down, just to slow the room.

Lawrence Pike:
“Marion, please. Todderick Davenport III’s involvement in this situation is tangential at most.”

Holt turns his head just enough to acknowledge him, but doesn’t yield.

Marion Holt:
“I don’t know about that. Isn’t The Third the reason Millison was present in the first place?”

That hits differently.

TDJr doesn’t pause this time.

Todderick Davenport Jr.:
“We are not reviewing my son’s conduct here.”

The emphasis is sharp—more than anything he’s said so far.

The room goes quiet again, but it’s not the same silence as before. This one lingers, heavier, less controlled.

Across the table, Kirsty watches the exchange without much interest, as if the argument has already drifted away from anything she considers relevant.

Pike doesn’t look at TDJr when he speaks again. He’s still looking at Kirsty.

The silence after TDJr’s outburst doesn’t reset the room—it fractures it.

Kirsty exhales sharply, patience gone.

Kirsty McKinney:
“Are you people serious? He’s the one that started it. Who the hell even has a butler anyway?”

That one lands.

TDJr doesn’t hesitate this time.

Todderick Davenport Jr.:
“Edward Millison has been an employee of my family for longer than you’ve been alive, young lady.”

Kirsty rolls her eyes, a quiet huff escaping before she looks away.

Dane finally speaks, tone flat but firm.

Eric Dane Sr.:
“She’s not wrong though. He did lay hands on her first.”

Holt is already shaking his head.

Marion Holt:
“We reviewed the segment. There is no proof that he initiated contact.”

Dane turns his head just enough, irritation creeping in.

Eric Dane Sr.:
“The butler said he tried to stop her. Do you need a diagram?”

TDJr cuts across it immediately.

Todderick Davenport Jr.:
“Edward Millison. The man has a name, and you will use it.”

Dane doesn’t respond. Kirsty mutters something under her breath—just low enough to be indistinct—before leaning forward again.

Kirsty McKinney:
“And I’m a wrestler. I pin people.”

A small shrug.

Kirsty McKinney:
“I just pinned Mr. Millison in a way that I could go about my business without him getting hurt.”

A beat.

Her tone shifts—sharper now.

Kirsty McKinney:
“You saying I should’ve choked him out instead or something? ’Cause I could have.”

Holt leans forward immediately, anger no longer masked.

Marion Holt:
“I beg your pardon—”

Kirsty cuts him off without even looking at him.

Kirsty McKinney:
“This is so fucking ridiculous.”

That hangs there—raw, unfiltered.

Pike speaks over it, not louder, not sharper—just steadier.

Lawrence Pike:
“Ms. McKinney, you stated that you did not intend to injure Mr. Millison.”

Kirsty glances at him, still keyed up.

Kirsty McKinney:
“Yeah?”

Pike doesn’t react to the tone.

Lawrence Pike:
“However, he suffered friction burns and mild circulatory damage from the cords you used to restrain him.”

A small pause.

Lawrence Pike:
“Thankfully, the injuries were not severe.”

That lands. Not as an accusation - as a fact. Kirsty blinks once.

Kirsty McKinney:
“Oh.”

She actually thinks about it. Just for a second.

Kirsty McKinney:
“Well… sorry, I guess.”

A shrug follows, almost reflexive.

Kirsty McKinney:
“But he still should’ve known not to yank on the cords.”

Another beat.

Kirsty McKinney:
“Same as he should’ve known not to try and lay hands on me.”

Another, heavier, silence falls. Across the table, TDJr’s face has flushed pink. Holt, his upper lip tightening towards his teeth, stares at the ceiling in a transparent gesture of contempt. Pike doesn’t look away.

He’s not reacting to what she said - he’s processing what it means.

Cito exhales quietly, shifting his hands on the table before speaking.

Cito Conarri:
“Mr. Davenport… if I may.”

TDJr nods once, curt but receptive.

Cito turns slightly—not just to the Board, not just to Kirsty, but to the room as a whole.

Cito Conarri:
“In this business… there’s an understanding. Not a formal rule, not something written down—but it’s there.”

A small pause, choosing his words carefully.

Cito Conarri:
“When a wrestler is ‘on’—when they’re in that space, in that mindset—people who interact with them are expected to understand what that means.”

He glances briefly toward Kirsty.

Cito Conarri:
“And the people who work around them… are usually made aware of that before they’re ever put in that position.”

That lands.

Not softly.

Just clearly.

Cito shifts his attention back toward TDJr.

Cito Conarri:
“If someone engages physically in that moment, the expectation—right or wrong—is that they’re accepting what comes with it.”

A beat.

He doesn’t rush the next part.

Cito Conarri:
“Mr. Millison was not made aware of that expectation.”

Silence.

The weight of it settles in a different direction now. 

Cito doesn’t press further. He doesn’t n