The roar of the crowd was not a cheer; it was a rhythmic, pulsing hum, a sound of thousands of voices whispering a single prayer in a language Cattleya had never heard, yet understood perfectly in her marrow. It was the sound of a countdown.
She stood frozen on the balcony, the freezing air of the amphitheater biting into the wounds on her hands. Below, Rusty Vesper didn't move. He stood in the center of the spotlight, his tuxedo jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal skin that seemed to glow with a faint, iridescent malice.
"Why?" Cattleya screamed, her voice cracking against the vast, vaulted ceiling.
Rusty looked up. His eyes, once warm with what she had foolishly labeled love, were now cold, clinical, and devastatingly vacant. He didn't speak with his voice; he proje
