A murmur rolled through the audience before the production crew could smother it and the anchor's smile thinned.
Phei tilted his head. "Did anyone ask me beforehand what I was comfortable with? Did a single member of your team come to me and say — Mr. Ryujin Tiamat, are there any boundaries we ought to respect before we turn this into public theatre? No?" His smile deepened, still beautiful, still almost gentle, which of course made it worse. "Then what was the expectation, exactly? That because the cameras were live, I was meant to swallow anything you set in front of me, however uncomfortable, and smile for the lens?"
He shrugged. "Sorry to disappoint."
The anchor's mouth opened — he was paid to control conversations and he rarely enjoyed being walked by the throat into his own corner — and he reached for the recovery. "So, the Ryujin Tiamat young master is—"
Phei raised one finger, the anchor stopped instinctively.
