The first indication was sound.
A low, collective murmur from the corridor beyond the boardroom doors, the kind of sound that precedes a storm not in thunder but in the particular way the air changes, the pressure dropping just slightly, the light shifting in a way you could not name but your body registered regardless.
One of the junior associates leaned toward the door. Then another. Then the doors themselves seemed to shudder, just barely, with the weight of something pressing against them from the other side.
The second indication was light.
Camera flashes white, insistent, strobing through the thin gap beneath the double doors the unmistakable signature of press.
Julian moved before he understood why. He was already placing himself between the doors and Amara, already turning, his hand raised slightly in the automatic geometry of protection, when the doors came open.
They came like a tide.
