The meeting room is a tomb.
Silence presses against the walls so thick I can almost taste it—sterile and cold, like the air before a storm. I lean back in the head chair, my spine pressed against the leather, my fingers steepled in front of me.
My eyes stay fixed on the tablet screen—the news poisoning my morning, the faces of strangers dissecting my family.
My face is a mask. Cold. Unreadable.
The Best Feeling project crew stands before me in a rigid line. Every single one of them stares at the floor, at the table, at anything but me.
Their shoulders are tense. Their hands tremble at their sides. Fear radiates from them in waves.
The manager steps forward, his voice a fragile thing.
"Sir... You—"
I don't let him finish. I pick up the tablet and throw it onto the table.
The sharp crack echoes through the silence like a gunshot.
The screen fractures, spiderweb cracks racing across the glass.
