The scream still hung in the air like a cracked bell that wouldn't stop ringing, sharp and wrong and endless.
The two staffers stood frozen at the lip of the stage, badges twisted wild on their lanyards, faces drained white as hospital sheets, sweat cutting clean lines down temples, hands trembling so hard one guy's walkie-talkie slipped and clattered loud across the marble like a gunshot in church.
The hall had flipped from victory roar to graveyard silence in one brutal heartbeat. Phones froze mid-air.
Mouths hung open. Eyes bulged.
The golden lights overhead buzzed louder now, harsh and angry, like the building itself felt the knife twist.
Then the whispers started.
Soft.
Fast.
Everywhere.
Like matches striking in the dark.
"Klein? The judge? White hair, navy dress, pearl brooch?"
"Dead? In the restroom? You're joking."
"Heart attack? Stroke? She was leaning forward hungry ten minutes ago."
"Blood everywhere, he said. That's not a stroke."
