Vivian's phone glowed like a small, polite storm. review_v5 at the top; beneath it, a draft card: "Is he taken?" YES/NO, hearts like bait.
"In two," she said, friendly. Stainless.
"Addendum and Rider apply," Rita said, already moving her thumb. "That poll implies a romance claim without consent on record. If it runs, it runs with the window plate on screen or it becomes misleading by Standards notes."
"Audience engagement," Vivian said, the way rain calls itself weather. "Not a claim."
"Then engage them with the right noun," Rita said. "Consent."
Aisha's voice found us in the seam between hedge and hallway. "I'm drafting a line to Standards now: polls that imply relationship status without consent must either be reframed to process – 'Do consent standards in publicity matter?' – or carry the window plate labeling speculation. Vivian, you're cc'ed."
Vivian's smile kept its posture. "We can't litigate a poll," she said.
"You can, if it's an instrument of implication," Aisha said. "Or you can pick the better question."
The floor manager pivoted into our corridor like a human metronome. "In ninety to the tuck," they said. "We'll park Camera C on the hedge. A graphics ticker can ride under."
"Ticker carries Consent Poll or window," Rita said.
The host slid up with his cards tucked and his face set to helpful. "If you give me a question, I can ask it with my eyebrows," he said. "The void will forgive me."
"Ask this," I said. "Should shows ask for consent before framing romance? YES/NO. Lower-third: Consent Poll. If they push the other one anywhere near us, you say window out loud."
He grinned like a man who had been handed a tool that fit his hand. "Copies well."
A producer in black drifted by, headset crooked. She tried to steer Serena's wide toward Evan's vector like you nudge magnets and hope for science. Boone adjusted nothing and changed the hallway. Space remembered its ethics.
"No unannounced intimacy," he said, conversational. The headset nodded like it had invented agreement.
Serena's handler kept her at a clean angle where lenses can't pretend to see more. Serena looked across at me – not a plea, a pass. I caught it. We put it in the bag with paper.
"Clock," Evan said, low. He did not crowd. He stood where load-bearing happens. "If that poll goes live someplace I can't fix, I want a clean line on my channels. Twelve words. No labels. Window ready."
"Use the sentence," I said. "Editing, not my consent."
He nodded, then to nobody we could see: "Queue the line for caption window. Post only if they mislabel." A phone outside the frame agreed to be useful.
Vivian read the air the way some people read palms. "We can run both," she offered. "Audience Consent Poll for the hedge – my YES/NO on socials. Everyone eats."
"Or we run one that doesn't mislead," Rita said. "Pick the one that can stand on a bus stop without lying."
The floor manager rolled a low circle. "In sixty," they said. "Graphics wants final copy."
"Copy this," Rita said. "Consent Poll:Should shows ask for consent before framing romance? YES/NO. Plate ready. No 'clarify' tag."
Aisha's typing became weather. "Standards note sent," she said. "Any yes/no implying relationship status without on-screen consent is a mislead. Pair with window or replace question. Legal cc'ed. EP cc'ed. Brand cc'ed."
The Brand Rep appeared like lotion. "I love a good values prompt," he said. "Our brand is pro-consent."
"Post your caption window when you brag," Rita said.
He smiled like an onion. "Of course."
The headset producer returned to try a new geometry: a roaming camera nosed toward Evan's shoulder like a dog considering bad manners. Boone shifted his coin-width. The camera learned to heel.
Vivian tilted her phone so the light kissed her knuckles. "If we must go values," she said, still friendly, "I want my yes/no clean and cute. Hearts test well."
"No hearts," I said. "This is not a crush test."
"Check," the host said, eyes already shaping the throw. "We'll call it Consent Poll and give them thirty seconds. Then I land the hour."
Serena's handler leaned in exactly enough. "If asked directly," he said softly, "she will say I choose what parts of me get rented and when I want them back. That sentence is clean."
"That sentence is policy," Rita said. "Good."
Victor drifted to my shoulder with a new battery he didn't need but preferred. "Sound stays honest if you let silence be a word," he said. "Don't fill the gaps."
"I won't," I said.
The prompt tablet – less bold now – tried to blink Ask about marriage from the wing. Rita's thumb made a small white square and the face remembered photographs can be evidence.
"In thirty," the floor said, backpedaling toward Camera C. The hedge settled into its job. The monitor showed the Consent Poll graphic – plain, unflirty, two rectangles that would become bars if a room decided to mean it.
Vivian hovered at the wing, phone open to a draft she wasn't ready to lose. She didn't argue. She watched. It is a kind of power.
"Last check," Aisha said in our sleeves. "If somebody swaps the question mid-flow, say window. If a lower-third tries 'clarify', say consent and look at Camera C. Got it."
"Got it," the host said cheerfully, because cheerfulness hides knives.
"Got it," I said.
Evan rolled the twelve words across his tongue one last time, dry as bread that will do the job. "Editing, not my consent," he said. "Hands visible. No labels."
"Hands visible," Boone echoed, because some rules should be spoken by walls.
"In ten," the floor said. The tally above Camera C woke to a soft red. The hedge breathed.
The host smiled into rent-paying light. "Welcome back," he said. "Before we go, a thirty-second Consent Poll. Should shows ask for consent before framing romance? YES or NO. Tap your app or hit the site. We'll show you the result right now."
The question landed on screen with a small, honest sound. No hearts. No wink. Just two boxes and a room full of phones that wanted to be people.
The first bar woke.
It moved.