The hospital wasn't just chaos; it was a feeding frenzy. The entrance swarmed with reporters, a seething mass of humanity and greed, their cameras flashing like a thunderstorm of cheap lightning, microphones thrust forward like weapons. Niko and I carved a path through them, a ship pushing through a filthy, churning sea.
"Mr. Roman! Is your father going to survive?" "Was the plane crash an assassination?" "Are you ready to lead the company alone?"
Their voices were a singular, insect-like drone. I didn't answer. I couldn't. My jaw was a locked vault, my teeth ground so tight I could feel the enamel threatening to powder.
Hospital security formed a human barricade, shoving the horde back, and the moment the thick glass doors sealed behind us, the world went from a roar to a whisper. An expensive, suffocating whisper.
