They moved the discussion from the backstage.
Too many eyes, too much traffic, and too many people pretending not to listen while angling their bodies closer. Max said something low to the handler, and the handler - white-faced with relief at being given a job that wasn't standing here while two men sharpened knives with their smiles - led them through a side passage of the venue.
The event avenue had been built to host crowds without letting crowds decide what happened.
Wide hallways with polished stone, banners in black and gold hung high enough to be seen but not grabbed, discreet security stations behind decorative panels, and etherlines threaded into the molding like veins: soft, pale glows that made the building feel alive, awake, and slightly predatory. Even here, away from the stage, the bass still lived in the bones of the walls, a fading echo of the concert that refused to fully die.
They stopped at a private room.
