The lights dimmed slow and deliberate, sliding from harsh white to a warmer, deeper gold that turned the entire space into a living arena, the kind where gladiators used to bleed for the crowd's favor.
The air buzzed thick with unfinished words, the scent of fresh coffee from the lobby mixing with the sharp tang of sweat under wool suits, hearts still racing from the break.
People poured back in waves, a river of dark jackets and clicking heels, seats groaning loud as bodies dropped heavy, programs rustling like dry leaves in a storm about to break.
Whispers shot across rows fast and hot—did you see Julian's face, those photos hit like punches, Aldridge is done, no way he climbs out of that grave.
Phones glowed soft blue in the shadows, fingers hammering keys, live feeds exploding with clips of gangrene limbs and frozen robots, hashtags trending already: #JulianDestroys #HumanHandsWin.
