Moje przemówienie pożegnalne zostało przerwane: „Nie mamy na to czasu”. Zamknąłem laptopa… Wtedy inwestorzy zapytali o mnie.

We scheduled community site openings in Riverdale, Westside, and a new pilot location in Newark where Aisha had strong clinic relationships.

And I started receiving emails.

From journalists.

From former Audiovance clients.

From strangers whose parents had lost hearing and whose lives had gotten smaller because of it.

Some messages were kind.

Others were not.

A man with no name signed his email only as “Shareholder,” and he wrote:

You’re going to destroy a good company for your ego.

I stared at the line for a long time.

Then I deleted it.

Because ego had never been my problem.

Silence was.

Two days before our first community site opened, I got another message.

This one came from someone I hadn’t heard from in years.

Professor Elaine Thorsen.

My doctoral advisor.

Her subject line was simple: I saw the announcement.

The email was shorter.

Vienn—You always wanted the work to belong to the people. Now make sure it does. If you need witnesses, references, or documentation of what you developed independently, you have it. I kept copies of your early research proposals. Call me.

I sat back in my chair, blinking.

At Audiovance, relationships had always felt transactional.

At universities, they’d been political.

But this—this felt like something older.

Loyalty.

I called her.

She answered on the second ring.

“Vienn,” she said, voice dry and steady. “Congratulations. Also, brace yourself.”

“I already am,” I replied.

Elaine exhaled.

“You’re going to learn a lesson no one teaches in engineering programs,” she said. “The better your work is, the more people will try to own it.”

“I know,” I said.

“No,” she corrected. “You think you know. But you don’t yet know how far they’ll go.”

Her words stayed with me.

Because two mornings later, as we were setting up the Riverdale site, I saw the first sign of how far.

The community center smelled like floor polish and old coffee. Folding tables lined the walls, and our team moved with the careful choreography of people who didn’t want to waste a single minute.

Aisha was at the intake station, greeting patients with warmth that made even the anxious ones relax.

Jordan was coordinating volunteers.

Lena and Gustaf were calibrating devices.

Mrs. Gonzalez sat near the front, a small queen among plastic chairs.

And I was in the back room, reviewing the schedule, when the security guard knocked.

“Dr. Rodus?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“There’s someone here for you,” he said, holding out a thick envelope.

My stomach dropped.

I didn’t have to open it to know.

But I did anyway.

Notice of Temporary Restraining Order Hearing.

Audiovance v. Rodus.

Audiovance v. Adaptive Hearing Initiative.

The date was three days away.

My hands stayed steady because I refused to give them the satisfaction of shaking.

I walked out into the main hall, where patients were starting to arrive.

An older man with a worn baseball cap stood near the door, staring at the posters we’d put up about testing and follow-up.

A teenager hovered beside her mother, eyes sharp, shoulders tense.

A young woman bounced a baby on her hip, trying to soothe him while filling out paperwork.

They weren’t here for corporate drama.

They were here because the world had gotten too quiet.

I folded the envelope and slid it into my bag.

Then I walked to the front of the room and smiled.

“Good morning,” I said. “Thank you for coming.”

Jordan’s eyes flicked to me, questioning.

I gave him a small shake of my head.

Not now.

Not in front of them.

Because the work mattered more than the noise.

We ran the clinic.

We tested.

We adjusted.

We listened.

And near the end of the day, something happened that reminded me why I would never go back.

A little girl—maybe eight—sat in the chair across from me, swinging her legs.

Her name was Tessa.

Her mother explained that Tessa had been struggling in school because she couldn’t distinguish speech in noisy classrooms.

“She’s smart,” her mother said quickly, defensive, as if she’d been accused. “She just… she shuts down when she can’t follow.”

Tessa stared at the floor.

I softened my voice.

“Do you like music?” I asked her.

She shrugged.

“My grandma plays piano,” she said. “But it’s mostly just… loud.”

I glanced at Lena, who was working beside me.

“Let’s try something,” I said.

We fitted Tessa with a prototype optimized for auditory processing—one we’d refined based on months of clinic data, not hospital sales projections.

I played a simple recording: a voice speaking over cafeteria noise.

At first, Tessa’s face stayed blank.

Then her eyebrows lifted.

“That’s… that’s a person,” she said slowly.

“Yes,” I replied. “Can you hear what they’re saying?”

Tessa’s mouth opened slightly.

“She’s saying… ‘Can you pass the juice?’”

Her mother covered her mouth with her hand.

Tessa looked up at me, eyes suddenly bright.

“It’s not loud,” she whispered. “It’s… clear.”

In that moment, the envelope in my bag meant nothing.

Audiovance meant nothing.

Because this—this was what seven years had been for.

That night, we gathered back at the warehouse, exhausted and energized, the way you feel after doing something that matters.

Maya arrived late, carrying a legal folder and a paper bag of takeout.

“I’m sorry,” she said, setting the bag down. “I was on the phone with the consortium’s legal team.”

“How bad?” Lena asked.

Maya opened the folder.

“They filed for a temporary restraining order to stop you from operating community sites, from recruiting staff, and from using any technology they claim is theirs,” she said. “They’re asking the court to treat you like a thief.”

Gustaf made a low sound in his throat.

“They can’t stop community clinics,” he said. “That would be—”

“Cruel?” Maya finished. “Yes. And they’ll try anyway.”

I sat down, feeling the weight settle.

“What’s our position?” I asked.

Maya flipped to a page.

“We argue the devices in use are either publicly documented, independently developed, or developed under the nonprofit exemption,” she said. “We argue irreparable harm isn’t on their side. We argue public interest.”

Teresa, who had been quiet in the corner, spoke.

“And we bring witnesses,” she said. “Patients. Community leaders. Clinicians. People who can look a judge in the eye and explain what happens when corporations prioritize profits.”

I felt something like gratitude rise in me, sharp and unexpected.

“Will they listen?” I asked.

Teresa met my gaze.

“They will have to,” she said. “Because the world is watching now.”

The hearing was scheduled in downtown federal court.

Three days.

Three days to prepare to defend seven years of work against a company that had once put my name on their brochures when it was convenient.

Three days to stand in front of a judge and explain why accessible hearing technology wasn’t a luxury product.

Three days to prove I wasn’t what they wanted to paint me as.

A threat.

On the morning of the hearing, I wore the same jeans I’d worn to the clinic.

No suit.

No armor.

I wanted to look like what I was.

A scientist.

A person.

Someone who had built something with communities.

The courtroom was colder than I expected. Air conditioning blasted from vents, and the marble floor made every footstep sound like a statement.

Audiovance’s attorneys arrived with briefcases and polished shoes.

Daniel Sloane nodded at me once, a gesture that pretended respect while carrying something else.

Behind him, Bennett walked in.

He looked older than he had in Singapore.

Not because time had passed.

Because pressure had.

Rainer followed, jaw set.

He didn’t look at me.

He looked past me, like he could erase me by refusing to see.

Maya leaned toward me.

“Whatever happens,” she whispered, “don’t react to them. React to the judge.”

I nodded.

The judge, a woman with silver hair pulled back tightly, took her seat and scanned the room with eyes that didn’t care about reputations.

“Let’s proceed,” she said.

Audiovance argued first.

They called me a former executive who had breached her obligations.

They called our initiative a competitor created in bad faith.

They claimed our prototypes were Audiovance property.

They claimed my staff were being improperly solicited.

They claimed irreparable harm.

They said the words trade secrets like they were sacred.

When it was our turn, Maya stood.

She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t dramatize.

She told the truth like a blade.

“Your Honor,” she said, “Audiovance wants this court to believe that a technology designed to help people hear belongs exclusively to their shareholders. They want to stop community clinics from operating because those clinics are inconvenient to their profit model.”

She paused.