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PART TWO

THOMAS

When I arrived, though the autograph-hunting frenzy had already died down, the place was still bustling. I was shown into a private conference room on the second floor. A long mahogany table stretched across the center of the room, surrounded by leather-backed chairs. At the far end, Thomas sat looking out the window, his back to the door.

He turned as I entered, a weary smile touching his lips. “Ah, finally,” he said, rising to greet me. “I was beginning to think you got lost in the labyrinth of this hotel.”

I shook his hand, noting the slight tremor in his fingers. “Traffic was worse than I expected,” I replied, pulling out a chair opposite him. “How have you been holding up with all this chaos?”

Thomas sighed, sinking back into his seat. “It’s overwhelming, to be honest. The interviews, the endless questions, the expectations—it feels like everyone wants a piece of something I barely understand myself.”