The roar of the crowd below was a physical weight. It was a sound of desperate, starving love—the kind of love that usually ends in a tearing of flesh.
Elena stood by the French doors. She took one last look at me. I saw the fear in her eyes, but I also saw the hunger. She wanted this. She wanted to be the woman the world loved, even if it was for a split second before a bullet arrived.
"Go, Remember the script," I said, standing in the shadows of the doorway. "You don't talk about the money. You don't talk about the fire. You talk about 'The Future.''
Then, she straightened her spine. The "Becoming" was complete.
She stepped out.
The explosion of sound from the street was deafening. Thousands of people, packed into the canyon of the street below, erupted into a unified chant. Flashbulbs went off like a localized lightning storm, illuminating the white silk of her dress until she looked like she was made of pure light.
From the security hub inside, Reid and I watched the feed.
