The center of Elysium's produce section had transformed into a courtroom, and Damien Sinclair was the executioner.
The billionaire tech bros, the supermodels, and the Old Money socialites were huddled together near the artisanal breads, completely silent, watching a man they usually only read about in Forbes unravel into something distinctly inhuman.
The store manager, a man in his fifties sweating completely through his bespoke suit, approached Damien with trembling hands. He held out an iPad Pro.
"M-Mr. Sinclair," the manager stammered, his voice cracking. "The security footage from the rear corridor. As you requested."
Damien snatched the tablet from his hands.
He stared at the screen. The high-definition feed showed the pristine, marble-tiled back hallway leading to the alley exit. It was completely empty.
Damien watched for ten seconds. His golden eyes, sharp and predatory, caught the subtle distortion.
