The piercing chill of the night wind was not the only thing biting into the skin of those gathered outside the opulent gates of the Lacy villa. It was a scene ripped from a surrealist nightmare, a tableau so jarring that it defied the logic of the elite world nestled within the high walls of the estate.
Under the harsh glare of streetlamps and the ambient glow of the mansion’s security floods, a sea of shadows had congregated. They were not protesters, nor were they fans. They were penitents.
Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of figures were on their knees. The gravel of the driveway, usually reserved for the tires of limousines and luxury sedans, now dug unforgivingly into the expensive trousers and skirts of Valor City’s media elite. These were men and women who typically wielded pens like sca
