It was, by all measures, a terrible day to have eyes.
Rowan sat stiffly outside the private dining room, a full cup of untouched coffee going cold in his hands, pretending he wasn't still seeing afterimages of the balcony footage in his retinas. The security team had been silent ever since the incident, which was unusual; silence wasn't normal. Silence meant trauma. And what they'd witnessed, however briefly, had been... decisive.
He had personally deleted the feed.
"I'm not paid enough for this," he muttered, even though he technically was. Triple hazard pay didn't cover psychic damage.
The door behind him remained closed, blissfully shielding him from whatever chaos was unfolding inside. But it couldn't block memory.
The sounds.
The angle.
The part where Chris said "Dax" like it was both a prayer and a war crime.
Rowan took a slow sip of his coffee. It was bitter, cold, and somehow still preferable to remembering the precise moment the balcony railing entered the frame.
