'What,' Yuzuki thought, with the slow dawning clarity of a woman watching a farce assemble itself in real time, 'the actual fuck is this.'
She was cursing, she was aware she was cursing which she didn't do so much in English, but she felt entirely justified, because — how to put this with the dignity her station theoretically demanded?
— they were all behaving like heat-seeking missiles. Every last one of them were locked on, trailing, drawn helplessly along the same vector toward a single oblivious point of gravity in a two-million-dollar car.
To appreciate the full absurdity of it, one had to back up exactly thirty seconds ago.
The moment Phei had stepped out of the hotel and folded himself into the Rolls and the moment the convoy glided forward toward whatever destination Yuzuki could not have cared less about if she'd been paid in Sovereign-tier artifacts to care — four shadows had moved with him.
