The Situation Room buzzed with tension, screens flickering with satellite feeds from the Middle East. President Vince Harlan stood at the head of the table, his face etched with strain as analysts dissected the latest intel. A hostile regime in the region had test-fired a missile system eerily similar to Vardo Harlan's proprietary designs—guidance tech that shouldn't exist outside classified U.S. contracts. Whispers of black-market leaks rippled through the room, fingers pointing toward Vardo's empire.
Nia Prescot sat to Vince's left, her laptop open to draft notes for the emergency address. Her mind raced, piecing together fragments: Vardo's late-night calls, the encrypted files he'd slipped her weeks ago. Guilt gnawed at her—loyalty to Vince clashing with the magnetic pull of his brothe
