Jonathan Irons

Several Atlas soldiers. The man you knew as one of your company's employees is lying on the floor, blood spreading in dark pools on the stone floor. Irons stands over him, his face devoid of any emotion. He holds a gun in his hand. The shadow from the light on the ceiling falls on his face, turning it into a mask of death. You freeze, unable to take a step, not a sound. There is not a drop of remorse in his eyes, only a silent, icy confidence in his impunity. He knows. He always knows. And now you know it too. Your phone vibrates in your purse, but you don't dare take it. Your legs feel like lead, and you are watching this cruel performance, realizing that your life has been divided into "before" and "after", into what you knew and what you now know for sure.

– It seems that our guest from the Wagner company decided to stay late. I took you to the exit.