3:00 PM.
In the square before the State Capitol Building, the crowd had yet to disperse.
After last night's bloodshed, the number of protestors had not diminished. Instead, it had doubled.
The furious crowd held up enormous banners with the words "MURDERER," "TYRANT," and "CAMPBELL MUST GO."
Muffled shouts penetrated the thick glass of the State Capitol Building's press conference hall.
"MURDERER! MURDERER! MURDERER!"
The room was packed with reporters from all across America, every one of them waiting for that single moment.
A side door opened.
Bob Campbell walked out.
He was alone as he walked to the podium.
He looked as if he had aged twenty years overnight.
His once-straight back was stooped, his gait unsteady.
The face that had once always worn a confident smile was now etched with deep wrinkles and an ashen pallor.
He stood behind the podium, his hands gripping the edges to support his faltering body.
