The evening news had been running its usual cycle—updates from the police station, heated debates from panel guests, public outrage spilling in from online threads. Broadcasters were in mid-sentence, detailing the chaos surrounding the recent murder at the station, when the screen suddenly glitched.
A low static cut across the feed.
Then—black.
Viewers all across the country sat up, confused, their remotes frozen in their hands. The station logo vanished. The panelists' voices silenced. And in a flicker, the screen blinked back to life—but it was no longer the studio.
It was a dimly lit living room.
A luxurious penthouse interior. Silent. Tense.
And there, on live national broadcast, was Reuben Alcrest—slumped on the floor, hands trembling, face pale, eyes wide like someone who had just looked death in the face and hadn't recovered from it.
The camera was static, unmoving—clearly not held by human hands, but possibly broadcast from a hidden source.
