The room is a perfect circle of black marble. A single spotlight illuminates two chairs. One is ornate, gilded, empty. The other is simple, steel, occupied by MOHAMMED BIN SALMAN, 40, still wearing the pristine white thawb he died in. He looks impatient.
Across from him, CROWLEY WOLF, 50s, dressed in a threadbare velvet smoking jacket, paces slowly, holding a small, leather-bound director’s script. He stops, turns, and his voice booms, filling the vast, empty space.
CROWLEY WOLF (Not shouting, but with immense, theatrical volume) You’re late. The curtain rose an eternity ago. You think power makes you immune to time? Here, time is the only critic that matters. And it has found your performance... lacking. You’re playing the role of ”Crown Prince.” Act like it. Sit up.
Mohammed shifts, his arrogance a physical shield.
MOHAMMED BIN SALMAN I do not answer to stagehands. I am the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. This... interrogation is a mistake. A grotesque misunderstanding.
