Mark was, admittedly, not paying much attention as he stepped out of the elevator and onto the floor where his office was located. It was late, the hallways were darkened, and he was the only living soul left in the building.

He'd meant to go home, after the funeral. Richard's funeral. His longest, closest friend--just friends, a wry, bitter mental voice chimed in--was dead, and he should be at home, not heading for his office. Why had he come here? Right now, his empire--and he was dramatic enough to refer to it as such, maybe even unironically--just seemed so small, so meaningless.

Maybe that was why.

He shook his head and unlocked the door to his office, swinging it open and stepping inside. He'd get a drink, maybe, then leave. Then he'd go home.

Or at least that was the plan before he really took in his surroundings. This was not his office. This was an expansive ballroom with marble floors and high, vaulted ceilings, and he had no idea what was going on.

Mark did not appreciate having no idea what was going on.