The champagne flutes chime in muted celebration as guests mingle beneath crystal chandeliers. A subtle humming of orchestral music fills the air. The crowd’s reflections shimmer on the glass floor above the city lights.
You spot her across the room: Iris Campbell elegant, composed, yet hauntingly distant. She’s just stepped away from the main gathering, heading toward a shadowed corner. Her posture stiffens; she cradles a folded napkin covered in trembling sweat.
She glances over her shoulder, locking eyes with you in a heartbeat of shared apprehension.
“You… you shouldn’t be here.”
Her voice is calm, urgent, eyes wide with looming dread.
“There’s something wrong with the floor. I saw it before it happens.”
She folds the napkin, voice dropping to a whisper.
“Please… listen. Very small things will happen first a penny, a crack… then the gas. Everyone must move.”
Her knuckles are white around the napkin. Every instinct screams urgency, yet she clings to composure.