The Geneva summit had barely concluded when the fallout hit Washington like a shockwave. President Vince Harlan's administration reeled from the diplomatic crisis, headlines screaming about leaked weapons tech and shadowy dealings. In the Oval Office, Vince paced behind the Resolute Desk, his tie loosened, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. Reports piled up: anomalous access logs from the secure bunker, a micro-drive unaccounted for in inventory, and whispers of Nia Prescot's unscheduled movements during the event.
Nia stood before him, summoned under the guise of debriefing. Her stomach churned as Vince stopped pacing, holding up a tablet with security footage—grainy images of her slipping into the service elevator. 'Nia,' he said, voice cracking, 'what the hell is this? You were supp
