CASSIAN
The black sedan was a tomb of silence as it sat idling just outside the Llotja de Mar.
Through the deep tint of the windows, the world outside was a frenetic, silent movie of flashing strobes and red carpet theatrics. I could see the vultures, the reporters, vying for position, their cameras held aloft like weapons.
My phone was pressed to my ear, the only thing grounding me being the familiar, irritating frequency of Cyan's voice.
"I still can't believe you're not letting me come," Cyan complained, his tone so petulant I could practically see the pout on his bruised face. "This is cruel and unusual punishment, Cassian. I'm being detained against my will."
"You have a broken arm," I said flatly, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. I looked like a man who hadn't just tumbled a high-performance vehicle into a ditch three days ago.
