By the time we reach the exit, someone familiar waits there. In an expensive black suit and sunglasses, his shoulder is propped confidently on the wall of a gift shop, ankles crossed. Surrounded by four bodyguards, he basks in the attention. No one hassles him, though they snap photos from faraway. “I was going to meet you by the exhibits, but I thought I’d watch how you two handle the crowds. I needed a reminder on what a clusterfuck looks like.” Connor Cobalt straightens off the wall and then nods to the gift shop. “It’s empty.” He goes inside, his bodyguards waiting by the door.
