"The truth doesn't always roar. Sometimes, it speaks softly in paper trails and quiet resolve."
The air inside the media hall felt heavier than usual, charged with a silence that hung just before a storm. Kiefer Samuel stood before the podium, her fingers tightly clasped around a remote that controlled the large screen behind her. The press had been called, the lights were up, and every eye in the room was watching her—not with curiosity, but with anticipation.
She knew the stakes. This wasn't just about reclaiming an idea. It was about reclaiming her voice.
She took a breath. "Good morning. I appreciate you all being here on such short notice," she began, her tone calm and composed. Her usual nerves were tucked away beneath her resolve.
She pressed the remote. The first slide popped up on screen—an image of a handwritten research outline, dated six months ago. "This," she said, "was the first draft of a concept I called Project Herbas—an initiative born out of both science and necessity."
Flashbulbs clicked.
"My inspiration wasn't drawn from a lab or a library," she continued, pausing to look at the crowd. "It came from home. From my mother, who raised me with herbal remedies when we couldn't afford anything else. From watching her experiment with roots and leaves while others bought prescriptions. I watched her save lives in silence."
Her voice faltered for a split second before she steadied it again.
"Now, I won't spend this conference attacking anyone," she said, indirectly referring to Katherine, "but I will present the truth. And let the facts speak."
Slide after slide followed—digital logs from her early access folders, emails to her academic mentors, timestamps from shared campus computers, a dated lab video showing her preparing the initial batch of the Herbas prototype. Each piece layered atop the last until the room was filled with a web of undeniable evidence.
Then came the final nail.
She displayed a signed testimony from Professor Maynard, one of the university's most respected figures in ethnobotany, who confirmed helping her fine-tune the herbal ratios during office hours long before the White Pharma internship began.
The crowd began murmuring.
A reporter finally stood. "Miss Samuel, do you believe this idea was deliberately stolen from you?"
Kiefer didn't flinch. "I believe it was repackaged by someone who had the means to access my research through company channels," she said. "And I believe this wasn't an accident. But that's not for me to decide. That's for truth and justice to handle."
Another hand went up. "What gave you the confidence to speak up now, especially given Miss Katherine Samuel's influence and board support?"
She paused.
"The same thing that helped me create Herbas—my mother's memory, and the people this project was supposed to help. I didn't come this far to stay silent when it matters the most."
Applause followed—not wild, not theatrical, but the slow, respectful kind that builds when people feel a truth hit something deep inside them.
Another voice rose, this time from the front row. "You mentioned your background played a role in this idea. Could you elaborate?"
Kiefer smiled faintly, almost nostalgically. "I was raised in B-Town. The kind of place where you learn survival before science. Our community relied on plants, elders' knowledge, and tradition. I later blended that with what I learned in medical school. Herbas isn't just a project—it's a bridge between old wisdom and new science."
The press scribbled furiously. Cameras zoomed.
But before she could proceed to closing remarks, the side doors burst open. Heels clicked like gunshots on marble floors.
And Katherine Samuel walked in.
Her hair was perfectly curled. Her lipstick a shade more aggressive than usual. In her hands were printed documents, a tablet, and the expression of someone who'd rehearsed every word she was about to say.
Kiefer stepped back slightly.
The storm was no longer coming—it had arrived.