'This is bad. This is so fucking bad.'
Reporters shouted over one another, their voices a barrage of desperation and fear.
"Mr. Midas, has this ever happened in history?!"
"Mr. Midas, please tell us the cause of this! Is this connected to the tears?!"
"Mr. Midas—please, give us an answer!"
Flash after flash lit up the street, the pulsing gate at the center casting a grotesque glow across the chaos. Its distorted light painted the gathered crowd in flickering shades of violet and red, shadows dancing like restless spirits.
Midas raised a hand. For a brief second, he inhaled—his chest swelling slow and heavy, shoulders tightening. Punzo caught it. That quiet moment, that faint hesitation.
And then the mask returned.
The infamous smile spread across his face, perfectly practiced, perfectly calm. Wrinkles curved just enough at the corners of his eyes to sell sincerity. His voice rolled out smooth, warm, reassuring—despite the raw panic bleeding in the air.
