Austin kept his tone even, respectful, aimed at Farren but pitched for the room.
"If I may, I think there's a way to articulate what Mayor Farren's been circling that might address both concerns without expanding the exposure surface."
Farren's eyes flicked to him, surprise there for half a second before it vanished behind something sharper, assessing, and then he gave the smallest nod.
Permission.
Austin moved closer to the table, not taking a seat, staying standing to keep the hierarchy intact, and he chose his words carefully, building the structure as he spoke.
"The core issue isn't access versus secrecy sir," he said, voice steady. "It's chain of custody."
Miller's eyes narrowed slightly, interest cutting through the irritation.
"If the system is either fully open to oversight or fully closed to it, you get failure in both directions," Austin continued. "Open, and you increase leak vectors exponentially. Closed, and you create a black box that no one outside the originator can trust."
He paused just long enough to let that settle.
"What Mayor Farren's approach suggests," he said, glancing briefly toward Farren to anchor the credit, "is a layered authorization structure that separates control from visibility without sacrificing either."
Farren didn't react outwardly, but Austin felt the shift, the silent understanding passing between them.
He pressed on.
"Instead of a single access channel, you embed dual authorization at the operational level," he said. "Every deployment, every activation event, requires two independent keys. One remains with Mr. Farren's organization, maintaining proprietary control and protecting the underlying architecture. The second sits with your office, Mr. president, but not as a blanket override."
Miller leaned forward slightly, attention fully engaged now.
"It's conditional," Austin said. "Your authorization key doesn't unlock the system directly. It validates the context in which the system is being used."
He could feel the structure locking into place as he spoke, each piece fitting where it needed to.
"Think of it as a split-chain custody model," he continued. "Farren's side initiates, your side verifies. Without both, nothing moves."
Miller's gaze sharpened. "Verification of what, exactly?"
"Parameters," Austin said. "Predefined operational envelopes. Geographic limits, threat thresholds, escalation protocols. Your office sets the boundaries in advance, codified into your authorization layer. When Farren's team initiates deployment, your key doesn't grant access to the system itself, it confirms that the request falls within those approved parameters."
He let that breathe for a second.
"If it does, the system activates with both parties accountable," he said. "If it doesn't, it fails cleanly, no override, no workaround."
Farren spoke then, picking it up seamlessly. "Which means I maintain full control over the technology itself," he said, voice steady again, confidence returning. "And you maintain enforceable limits on how it's used without ever exposing the core system to your infrastructure."
Miller didn't respond immediately, his attention locked on Austin now.
"And leaks?" he asked.
Austin nodded slightly. "This structure limits what can actually be exposed," he said. "Your side never holds the system, only the authorization logic. If something on your end is compromised, what's revealed is policy, not capability. On Farren's side, even if there's a breach, without your authorization layer the system is inert in any context that matters."
He shifted his stance slightly, the movement subtle.
"You don't eliminate risk," he said. "You compartmentalize it so that no single failure gives anyone everything."
Silence settled over the table, but it was a different kind now, not tension but consideration.
"And there's a secondary benefit," Austin added, because this part mattered. "Every authorization request generates data on how and where the system is being used within those parameters. That feedback loop goes back to Farren's R&D, refining the system based on real-world deployment without exposing the underlying tech or causing any media and optics backlash that can affect organizational stocks because everything is controlled."
Farren's mouth curved slightly, the first hint of real satisfaction.
Miller's fingers tapped once against the table, a small, controlled movement.
"And the price?" he asked.
Austin didn't hesitate.
"With the expanded structure and the added value on both sides," he said, tone measured, "the number naturally moves to twenty billion."
There was a flicker of something like disbelief across Farren's face, gone almost instantly as he recovered, leaning back with the ease of a man who had never intended to ask for less.
"Twenty," Farren said smoothly. "With royalties tied to deployment frequency and a tiered escalation model."
Miller exhaled once through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close.
"Interesting," he said, eyes still on Austin. "Very interesting."
He leaned back slightly, reassessing the room, and then his gaze returned to Austin with something new in it.
"Where did you come up with that?" he asked. "What exactly is your background, Mr. Greene was it?"
Austin kept his posture straight, his answer simple.
"Navy SEAL sir," he said. "Then Special Forces. After that, UN peacekeeping as a combat medic."
Miller studied him for a moment, the calculation visible, and then he nodded once.
"That tracks," he said, and there was genuine respect in it now, unforced.
He looked back to Farren.
"Twenty billion," he said. "With the structure as outlined, and we'll negotiate the royalty bands."
Farren didn't hide the satisfaction this time, the warmth of it clear as he extended his hand.
"Deal," he said.
They shook on it.
Austin stepped back into his original position, the room settling into something almost calm now, and as the tension drained away he felt the release hit him all at once, sharp and quiet.
The secretary looked at him again, and this time there was something in her expression that read as unmistakably impressed, her gaze lingering just a fraction longer before she looked away.
He felt a flicker of something like amusement.
Not the worst timing,
he thought.
They exited the White House under a clear sky that felt oddly detached from what had just happened inside.
As they moved toward the motorcade, Farren slowed just enough for Austin to fall into step beside him, his expression composed but the edge still there. "That was a hell of a save," he said quietly, then added, "You should've brought it to me sooner."
Austin met his gaze evenly. "I tried last night," he said. "We got interrupted."
Farren's eyes flicked once in recognition, then he nodded. "Fine," he said. "It's done now."
The ride to the hotel passed in a blur of traffic and silence.
When they pulled up, Farren checked his phone, read something, and then looked up with a casualness that didn't quite match the timing. "Once we're inside, everyone's off," he said. "Full detail. You too, take a day off. You've earned it."
Austin frowned. "That's not advisable sir."
Farren stepped closer, just enough to lower his voice without making a show of it. "That wasn't a suggestion," he said, tone smooth but firm. "But if you're feeling protective, assign someone to sit outside my door. Just know whoever you pick gets paid out of your pocket, not mine."
Austin held his gaze for a second, then huffed a quiet breath, a trace of a smile slipping through despite himself. "Understood," he said.
He dropped Farren at his suite, briefed the team on the unexpected stand-down, and watched as they dispersed, the tension of the day dissolving into something lighter as the reality of time off set in.
By the time he stepped back out onto the street, the city had shifted.
Night had settled in, and with it a different kind of awareness.
The first thing he noticed was the windows, not all of them but enough to matter, sheets of plywood bolted over glass that had been there two days ago, the raw edges still pale against the darker facades. A National Guard vehicle idled at the corner, engine humming low, two soldiers standing beside it with rifles slung across their chests, their posture relaxed but not casual, eyes moving in slow, practiced arcs.
He walked past a storefront where the lights were on but the door was locked, a handwritten sign taped unevenly to the inside of the glass that read CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE, the ink thick where the marker had bled.
A couple stood across the street, their voices low, the words indistinct but the tone unmistakable, something sharp threaded through the conversation that didn't belong in an ordinary argument.
He kept moving.
At the next intersection, a small group had gathered, not large enough to be called a crowd but not random either, their spacing deliberate, their attention focused inward, and he caught a fragment as he passed.
"—they shouldn't even be here—"
The rest was swallowed by the city.
Two blocks later, he saw the flyer.
It was half torn, one corner still clinging to a lamppost, the paper rippling slightly in the cold air, and what remained showed enough to understand the intent. A stylized image, human on one side, something else on the other, the dividing line jagged, uneven, and beneath it a slogan that had been ripped clean through the middle.
He didn't need the missing half.
Across the street, a pair of people stood too far apart to be together but too still to be strangers, their eyes tracking each other with a quiet, mutual wariness that felt new and not new at the same time.
Austin slowed without meaning to.
This is what it looks like,
he thought, taking it in, the small shifts that added up to something larger.
Not the headlines. Not the speeches. This.
A patrol car rolled past, its lights off but its presence enough to pull attention, conversations dipping, bodies adjusting.
He kept walking.
The farther he went, the quieter it got, the noise of the city thinning into something more contained, and in that quiet the details stood out more sharply. A shop window with the display cleared out entirely, empty shelves visible through the glass.
A cluster of people on one corner who didn't look at anyone passing by, their focus turned inward in a way that felt intentional. A man leaning against a wall, arms crossed, watching the street with a stillness that suggested he'd been there a while.
Austin's hands slipped into his pockets, more for something to do than for warmth.
Give it time, he thought automatically. It settles. It always settles.
The thought didn't land the way it used to.
He turned down another street, quieter still, and for a moment there was nothing but the sound of his own footsteps and the distant hum of traffic.
And then, without warning, another thought pushed through, uninvited and unwelcome.
His son.
It wasn't the first time that day, but it was the first time it hit like this, not abstract, not distant, but immediate.
He's going to grow up in this,
Austin thought, the words forming slow, heavy.
Not what it was. This.
He pictured him, older, walking streets like these, reading signs like that, watching people look at each other like that, and something in his chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.
What does that make him?
he thought.
What does that make them see when they look at him?
He stopped at the corner, not because he needed to but because the weight of it made moving feel like a choice he had to make deliberately.
Across the street, another window, another board, another sign.
The same pattern, repeating.
Austin exhaled slowly, the breath visible in the air for a second before it disappeared.
I don't know how to fix this,
he realized, the thought quiet, almost gentle, which made it worse.
He stood there a moment longer, then turned and kept walking, the city stretching out ahead of him, familiar and not, and the feeling stayed with him, unresolved, settling in somewhere deeper than he wanted it to.
It didn't go away.
And he didn't have an answer.