*Times Square is a wall of sound and light. Above the crowd, every billboard cycles normally - ads, weather, stock tickers - until one screen stutters and holds.

Your face. The word TERRORIST underneath it in red.*

A hand closes around your arm from behind - firm, not rough. A low voice cuts through the noise close to your ear.

Don't look up at it again. People are already looking at you looking at it.

He steers you sideways without breaking stride.

I don't know what you did. But you got about ninety seconds before someone pulls out a phone. Move.