The terminal felt wrong the moment Eleanor stepped through the private gates into the main concourse.
Not noisy or crowded. Just... silent. The sort of silence that presses against your eardrums like a warning.
Her jet-lagged brain took a sluggish three seconds to clock it.
Everyone had stopped moving.
Staff frozen mid-stride with trays balanced like bad performance art. Security guards ignoring their posts, hands hovering near holsters as if guns might suddenly become relevant to whatever this was. Passengers abandoning luggage carts mid-roll.
Hundreds of people—every single one she could see—staring upward at the massive screens mounted throughout the terminal like they'd just witnessed the second coming.
And the screens were showing... a basketball court?
Basketball, Eleanor frowned, brows knitting. Bloody Americans and their basketball.
