George looked around the circular table, his gaze sweeping across the figures seated in silence. More people filtered in, each one taking their designated spot with a quiet weight, as if they all carried something unspeakable.
Their expressions were unreadable—some masked in cold indifference, others etched with tension that clung to the room like smoke.
Most wore the kind of face one reserves for funerals or national emergencies.
As he flipped through the contents of the file Victor had handed him, George felt his stomach tighten.
He had expected bureaucrats, a few high-ranking government officials perhaps—but not this. The room held a strange mix: political leaders from almost every major party, top scientists whose names he recognized from classified research papers, and advisors whose clearance levels should have kept them far from public view, and top doctors and engineers of country with as top psychologist he too is here.
But what unsettled him most wasn't their presence.
It was the man sitting at the far end of the table—a ghost from the chaos.
The leader of the revolutionary group, the very man whose network had been responsible for bombings, blackouts, and mass protests across the country, sat calmly among the others. Not in cuffs Not under guard Not even flanked by security. Just... there Like he belonged.
George kept his face neutral, but inside, questions burned:
Why was he here? Who had invited him? And more importantly—what kind of meeting was this, where enemies sat side by side and no one dared speak first?
Something about this gathering wasn't just above his pay grade—it was outside the known rules entirely.
George tried to keep his breathing steady, but his mind raced beneath the surface.
What the hell is this?
A government roundtable? No. This was something else—something unspoken. The presence of enemies and allies alike, all seated under one roof without alarms blaring or accusations flying, screamed of a conversation that wasn't meant to exist. Not in the open. Not officially.
His eyes darted back to the revolutionary leader. He should be in a black site or buried six feet deep—not rubbing elbows with ministers.
Was this a surrender? A negotiation? Or worse… had the lines between state and rebellion blurred beyond recognition?
George shifted in his seat, feeling like a child mistakenly invited to the adults' table—only to realize the adults were planning something far bigger than dinner.
A low hush fell over the room as a side door opened—not the main entrance, but a private one shielded by security and shadow.
And then he walked in.
The Prime Minister.
There was no fanfare, no announcement. Just the quiet authority of someone who didn't need either. He moved to the head of the table with a kind of weariness that only came from knowing more than anyone else—and bearing the weight of that knowledge for far too long.
He didn't sit. Not yet.
He scanned the room, meeting eyes—briefly, intentionally—as if confirming not only who was present but who could be trusted.
Then, his voice cut through the silence like a scalpel.
"Everything spoken in this room," he said, "is off the record, off the grid, and beyond the reach of any surveillance system on this planet."
A beat passed. Then another.
"If you're here, it means you're part of the solution… or the problem that needs to be kept closer than most."
George felt a cold ripple run through him.
The Prime Minister let the weight of his last sentence settle over the room like dust. Then, after a brief pause, he finally took his seat. The leather creaked faintly beneath him, the only sound in the room.
"What I'm about to share," he said slowly, "has never been disclosed to the public. Not to the media, Most of our own agencies aren't even aware."
George sat still, spine straight, but he could feel his pulse rising.
The Prime Minister looked toward the cluster of scientists, nodding once. "Approximately five years ago, a research team operating under a non-classified orbital observatory detected an anomaly in our planet's trajectory."
He paused, letting that hang for a moment before continuing.
"After years of verification, recalculations, and internal review—one of our lead researchers confirmed it. The Earth has begun a slow but measurable drift away from the Sun."
Murmurs rippled across the table—confused, disbelieving. One of the older ministers frowned. "Drift? How is that even possible?"
The Prime Minister raised a hand, silencing the room.
"Not only is it possible," he said, "it's accelerating. And if left unmitigated, it will result in the beginning of a new Ice Age. Not tomorrow. Not next year. But within approximately thirty years."
George felt a strange stillness grip his chest. Not panic—just the cold, dawning sense that everything he understood about their future had quietly changed.
"The man who discovered this phenomenon," the Prime Minister continued, "is here with us today."
He gestured toward a figure seated at the far left of the room—half in shadow, as if he'd been waiting all this time without a word.
"Dr. Albus Reif," the Prime Minister said, "is the scientist who not only found the anomaly, but who has dedicated the last five years of his life to studying it—at great personal cost."
All eyes turned toward the man.
Albus Reif looked up, and in the quiet, George noted something strange: this wasn't the look of a man eager for recognition. His face was pale, lined, his eyes sunken with long nights and longer doubts. He didn't look proud of his discovery. He looked haunted by it.
And George could feel it now—deep in his gut.
This meeting wasn't about politics.
It was about survival
The Prime Minister let the silence stretch for a few seconds longer, as if giving the weight of the truth time to settle in each of them like frostbite.
Then he stood again—slowly, deliberately—and looked around the table with the stern calm of someone delivering a verdict.
"This is not a crisis we can debate, politicize, or postpone. What you need to understand, what you must understand—" his voice sharpened, "—is that this is no longer about ideology. From this moment forward, the divisions between political parties… cease to matter."
He swept his gaze toward the left of the room, where the party leaders sat—some stiffening, others narrowing their eyes.
"There are no opposing camps in this room anymore. No coalitions. No left. No right. No ruling class. No resistance."
His words now turned to the right side of the table—where the revolutionary leader sat, arms crossed and silent, yet attentive.
"You," the Prime Minister said without flinching, "and the movement you command, are no longer enemies of the state. You are now—whether you accept it or not—part of humanity's last council."
A murmur rose—sharp and anxious—but he held up his hand again.
"This is not unique to us. Right now, as we speak, similar meetings are being held in every major capital across the globe. The leaders of hostile nations, bitter rivals, even sworn enemies—they're all hearing the same thing: Earth is slipping into the cold, and we have less than a generation to stop it."
His tone dropped, low and final.
"The age of borders has ended. What begins here is not a federation, nor an empire. It is necessity."
George's throat felt dry. The words were surreal, and yet every part of him could feel their gravity.
This wasn't fear-mongering. It wasn't political theater.
It was the unmistakable hum of reality bending beneath an unavoidable truth.
The Prime Minister took a step back, placing a hand on the back of his chair.
"We will brief you in full. Each of you has a role to play. But make no mistake—history ends in thirty years unless we rewrite it now."
He nodded once more toward Dr. Albus Reif. "And he will show you why."