There was stunned silence for a while.
Then came the shouts, in overlapping demands, in microphones thrust toward his face as if proximity alone would force answers out of him.
"Mr. Potentia, when did you first—"
"Is it true your Guild covered—"
"Was Raphael Mirasol—"
"Were all the names you mentioned that of your suspected paramours—"
The cameras flashed in a frenzy, reporters leaning forward like a tide of hungry mouths.
Hermes didn't stop. He stepped away from the podium, ignoring the calls, ignoring the way every word sharpened into accusations.
Golden Apple security surged in around him, a wall of dark suits and earpieces. They cut a path through the chaos, guiding him down the aisle and back through the doors before the press could claw more pieces out of him.
The din followed him down the hall, muffled only when the doors shut behind them.
Far across the city, Raphael was watching.
