The car door opened somewhere to the left.
The energy on the carpet shifted in the way it only does when someone arrives who people have been waiting for. Camera attention fractured, then swung hard in one direction like a compass snapping to north.
F. Jay stepped out.
He was wearing a fitted ivory suit, the fabric structured and clean, with deep navy embroidery running along the collar and cuffs in a pattern that was delicate enough to look almost like lace from a distance but sharp up close—HAN MYSTÈRE, unmistakable if you knew what you were looking at.
His face mask was in place, dark and minimal, and somehow it made the rest of him read louder. His personal assistant stepped out right behind him, already in motion.
The press swarmed.
He moved into it with the ease of someone who had been doing this long enough that it didn't require thought anymore. Posed. Turned. Adjusted his jacket once with a calm that said he knew exactly how it photographed.
