Elsewhere, in a luxurious private villa tucked behind high gates and tall walls, Eliot Monroe—one of the six board members who had sat in the old restaurant yesterday—sat alone in his lounge, glass of scotch shaking in his hand.
He was the current head of the national entertainment association. His eyes were locked on the news, wide and strained. His phone buzzed nonstop—messages from associates, executives, government contacts. But he couldn't reply. His mouth was dry. His thoughts were scattered.
"This is too much," he muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. "Four... four people. And he said two hours."
He gulped, running a hand through his hair. "This is getting out of hand. No one is safe. No one. The best solution…"
His voice cracked.
"…is to run."
He stood up slowly, walking toward the hallway to grab his travel bag, still trying to convince himself he had enough time.
Then—Click, a voice, Calm.
Right behind him.
"Where are you running to?"
