A day later.
The White House, Washington D.C.
The room was dimly lit, the warm glow of a single lamp casting long shadows against the walls of the presidential study. The faint crackle of the fireplace was the only sound, a stark contrast to the chaos brewing outside the White House. Matthew Hesh sat with his hands clasped together, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the polished oak desk. The weight of the moment pressed down on him like an anvil.
Bradford was tightening the noose. The war declaration loomed. Congress was dangerously close to overriding his veto. Public sentiment was still divided, but the war hawks had the advantage—controlling the press, manipulating the narrative, and ensuring that any hesitation on Matthew's part looked like weakness.
He needed something—anything—to turn the tide.
