The drive away from the stadium was a slow, miserable crawl.
Dozens of vehicles packed the narrow streets. Sirens came and went in spurts. Headlights flashed. People yelled. People cried. People honked—a lot.
Impatient drivers leaned on their horns like it would somehow clear the congestion. Families stood outside their cars, scanning the crowd, shouting names. Some wept openly. Others just stared.
Reporters hovered with cameras and comms units, desperate for scraps of tragedy they could spin into tomorrow's headlines.
Inside the G-Wagon, the sound was dulled. Thick luxury insulation kept most of it out. Still present, but distant, like the outside world had been turned down a few notches.
No one inside said much.
Tori sat with her head against the glass, eyes closed. She might've been asleep, but it was hard to tell. Her arms were crossed. Her face unreadable.
