Damon, his face ashen, grabbed a wireless talkback microphone off the console desk. He fumbled with the switch.
His own recorded deposition continued to blare, his voice confessing everything to twenty thousand seats.
“Administrative errors!” Damon stuttered into the live microphone, his voice cracking. “Just… some misunderstandings!”
His nonsensical excuses broadcast across the arena, layered over the damning recording of his past self. The record label president, seated just a few rows back, watched him with an expression of cold, absolute disgust.
Damon’s eyes darted around, recognizing the faces of every powerful person in the industry. The weight of his complete exposure crashed down on him.
He dropped the microphone. It hit the concrete floor with an awkward clatter that amplified across the silent arena.
Damon spun on his heel. He stumbled, half-running, half-falling, down the main exit tunnel toward the back parking lot. He didn’t look back.
Standing in the darkness of that very tunnel, two silent figures emerged from the shadows. Roman Torrez and two of his associates. They waited.
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