Don didn't turn to look at Charles. He simply lowered his gaze to his phone and opened the message from Gary.
It was short. No punctuation.
———
Sir I think you should see this.
———
A link followed.
Don tapped it and a browser opened to a media player—already buffered, already paused. He hit play and watched.
The video was shaky. Slightly blurry. But not enough to hide anything.
He and Charles were visible—on the casino's ground floor during the attack. The image was grainy, but the figures were unmistakable.
It was as brutal as he remembered it. It looked like a massacre.
And then came the audio.
"Please—help me! I can't—control myself!"
"No—please! I'm in pain!"
"Get it out of me! Don't kill me! Please!"
Voices. Dozens of them. Men. Women. Crying. Screaming. Pleading.
It made everything worse.
The footage alone would've been enough to spark controversy. But with those screams?
It turned what was a desperate fight for survival into a televised execution.
