The Oval Office was suffocating.
Telegrams, briefings, and intercepted broadcasts littered the President's desk like leaves in a storm.
Outside, the spring sun rose over Washington, but it cast no warmth.
The American Republic was, once again, on the edge of something it could not name.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt sat motionless in his chair, brows knitted, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he listened to the chaos unfold.
"…the refinery fire in Guayaquil was confirmed deliberate. No group has claimed it yet. Colombian rail authorities report five derailments. Armed militias are claiming responsibility for two, but the other three… well, they're saying it's likely sabotage."
"And Brazil?" FDR asked, his voice gravelled from sleeplessness.
"Still no leads," said Director William Donovan of the Office of Strategic Services.
"Every intelligence agency we have, FBI, OSS, Navy Cryptology, they're all circling the same black hole. No fingerprints, no shell, no trail."
