The VP stepped onto the hardwood.
The elderly man looked small against the 200,000 people vastness in the stadium—gray hair, stooped shoulders, a face that had seen too many administrative headaches to be impressed by much anymore.
He wore his usual suit—conservative, boring, exactly what you'd expect from someone whose job was to keep a school full of Legacy brats from burning down the building (or each other).
A microphone was pressed into his hand.
The screens zoomed on his face, broadcasting his image to every corner of the stadium, to every streaming platform, to every viewer around the world who'd tuned in to watch whatever this was about to become.
He cleared his throat.
"Good afternoon, everyone."
His voice echoed—amplified by speakers hidden throughout the architecture, bouncing off the curved walls until it seemed to come from everywhere at once.
"Welcome to Ashford Elite Academy Stadium."
