Joaquin jumps out of his seat, turning to the heralds who have been waiting in the wings for his command. “Begin the End Day calls,” he says, doing his best to keep his composure. The call was private, so no one else heard the gunshots, but it won’t be long before it’s pieced together that an act of violence occurred moments after speaking with the first Decker. He knows that Death-Cast will be blamed for this, scaring off the investors he needs to go global with the program.

The heralds look like ghosts as they float across the room in their white button-down shirts and light gray slacks and ties. Joaquin prepped them to look cool, calm, and collected, the very image the world needs to see to understand the strength and professionalism of the people on the other side of these phones and computers. He releases a deep sigh as the heralds take their seats, switch on their monitors, and get to work.

One look at Naya and Joaquin knows his wife senses a disturbance. He’ll clue her in after the media has been dismissed, but he’ll have to be fast because once all those reporters and photographers have their phones returned to them, they’ll discover the attack and everyone will blame Death-Cast.

He can’t ever say it out loud, but he knows that one person’s ending is simply a contribution to this company’s beginning, and not a result of Death-Cast’s existence. No matter what anyone says.

As Joaquin looks between the heralds and the photographers, there’s one thing at the forefront of his mind: There’s an undeniable frontrunner for the cover of his memoir. After all, there’s nothing like the bang of a gunshot to get a man’s life flashing before his eyes; he just hopes the camera caught Joaquin’s reaction.

If not, it would be a waste of a tragic moment.

Valentino

12:12 a.m.

Everyone is running for their lives, but not me.

I no longer have one to run for.

I’ve always done my best to move forward when life is challenging me—morning jogs, jumping up to the next weights during sets, all those casting rejections that made me feel horrible about myself—but what am I supposed to do when life is ending? Just accept it?

When I heard that gunshot, I froze up.

I never expected to see bullets flying around tonight. Is that how I’m going to die?