The flashbulbs were blinding. It wasn't just a press conference; it was a riot with better lighting.
Hundreds of reporters were packed into the hall. Cameras from every major network were live-streaming. The internet was already breaking.
#StYvesCivilWar was trending worldwide.
In the wings of the stage, Bastian adjusted his cuffs. His hands were steady, but his jaw was set so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek.
He looked down at Sacha.
The boy was wearing a miniature version of Bastian's charcoal suit. He looked like a tiny, serious CEO.
"Remember the mission, Boss?" Bastian asked softly.
Sacha nodded. He clutched his robot toy (which Anaïs had allowed as an emotional support).
"I sit on the chair. I look cute. I don't pick my nose."
"Perfect," Bastian said.
Anaïs stepped up behind them. She was wearing a white suit—sharp, pristine, and unapologetic. She didn't look like a victim; she looked like the woman who owned the building.
