"WE'VE WON!"
"WE'VE WON!"
The shouts, thick with alcohol and triumph, ripped through the plush air of the private chamber. It was a space reserved for the inner circle of Bruce, the newly elected president, a man whose meteoric rise from the world of international finance to the nation's highest office was already the stuff of legend.
"You won by a huge margin," a voice boomed, the words dripping with satisfaction.
"They predicted you'd take 12% before the campaigns even started, then 32% once the elections began, but you ended up with 68% of the votes. You crushed the competition," another chimed in, the sheer scale of the victory still intoxicating them all.
The newly elected president finally spoke amid the euphoria. "That's the most one could expect from a man who's spent most of his life in finance."
He raised his glass of wine and declared, "Once at the head of the World Bank, and now… at the head of a nation."
A thunder of applause followed.
Then, a soft voice — a woman's voice — cut through the atmosphere.
"Bruce? Did you at least prepare a speech?"
The newly elected president froze, startled, as if he had momentarily forgotten that he was expected to deliver one, a speech meant to inspire and reassure millions across the nation.
"I did," he replied quickly, hoping to dispel any doubt, just as a knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," the newly elected president said.
The doorknob turned, and a frail figure stepped inside, holding a stack of papers and wearing a headset with a microphone attached.
"You'll be on air in ten minutes," he said, addressing the president directly.
"Thank you for reminding me. You're doing an excellent job, kid," the president said with a reassuring smile, noticing the boy's exhausted face, the kind that told of sleepless nights and endless work.
"I suggest you get some rest," the president added warmly.
The boy, taken aback by the president's casual tone, stood speechless, unsure how to respond, until one of the president's friends flicked a bill onto the floor.
"Here, boy. Take this. Buy yourself some new drip."
Without hesitation, the boy knelt down and picked up the bill, his fingers brushing against the man's polished shoes in a silent gesture of acknowledgment.
When the boy left the room, the man who had thrown the bill burst into laughter.
"The kid actually touched my shoes for a dollar bill? He probably thought it was worth something!"
The others joined in, their laughter filling the room.
The president remained silent, watching them, a faint shadow crossing his expression. He knew how rotten they had become, but they were his only friends. The same ones he had graduated with from finance school. His parents had once urged him to keep them close, insisting they would never drag him down, only lift him up.
After all, they were the sons of his parents' business partners, men admired not just for their discipline, but for something far more sacred in their world: status.
He reached for a picture on his desk, an old photograph, yellowed with age. In it, he stood between his father and mother, a bright, innocent smile lighting up his young face.
A faint smile crossed his lips as he whispered inwardly, 'I've become the president of this country. I hope you're proud of me… wherever you are right now.'
"It's time," he said, lifting his head as he set the photograph back down.
He rose to his feet, gesturing for his associates to follow. Together, they walked out the door, down a long hallway, and finally stepped onto the stage, where hundreds awaited, their eyes fixed on the man who now stood before them as the nation's new president.
The crowd erupted in cheers, some holding signs boldly declaring, 'Bruce: God's envoy', while others simply read, 'Bruce for life.'
With that, he began the long-awaited speech.
"Honor and Duty
My fellow citizens,
Just moments ago, I took the oath before our nation. This is not merely a ceremonial act, but a solemn pledge to all of you, to the history of our Republic, and to the future we must build together.
The emotions I feel today are immense, yet tempered by the gravity of the task ahead. I am keenly aware of the honor you have bestowed upon me, and of the weighty responsibility that comes with it. Whether you voted for me or for my opponents, I will be the President of everyone.
The campaign is over. Passions have been expressed, sometimes with intensity, the price of democracy, and one we should embrace. But today, the time for division must give way to the time for unity.
We are united by far more than that which divides us. We share a love for this nation, its values, its culture, and its potential. I say this with conviction: no reform, no progress, no victory will be possible if we continue to speak across chasms instead of bridging them.
My first call is a call for calm and respect. Disagreement is essential in a democracy, but it must never descend into contempt. Together, we must rebuild the fabric of trust that is the foundation of any just society. This mandate is not mine alone, it belongs to every citizen who rises each morning with the desire to move our nation forward.
I have no miracle recipe, but I have unshakable faith in the genius of our people. I believe in the strength of local initiatives, in the dedication of our civil servants, in the courage of our entrepreneurs, and in the vitality of our youth.
It is especially this youth that I call upon to mobilize. Do not be mere spectators, be actors! Dare to undertake, dare to debate, dare to engage. The future is not written; it is ours to invent, and I want to invent it with you.
Looking at this magnificent crowd, reading the signs waving before me, I see messages that touch me deeply, like those 'Bruce for life' banners you hold so proudly.
I want to thank you for this fervor. It is the highest expression of trust a man can receive. Yet I must also, with all the humility I can summon, tell you this: I am only human.
I cannot predict what tomorrow will bring. In fact, what am I saying? I do not even know what might happen in the very next moment…"
Then a gunshot.
Screams tore through the air. Chaos erupted as blood splattered across the stage, a horrific tableau unfolding in an instant.
The newly elected president fell, shot down before he could finish his speech. The crowd froze in shock, the euphoria of victory shattered in a heartbeat.
Security surged forward, forming a protective barrier around him, desperate to prevent a second shot. But it seemed the shooter had already achieved his aim, no other gunfire followed.
The Secret Service moved with precision, carefully lifting him onto a stretcher and rushing toward the nearest hospital. His associates followed, unsure where to position themselves. This was not merely an escort of an ordinary person; this was the President. Every step, every movement, was executed as a rank-S operation , the highest priority mission for the Secret Service.
They split into three coordinated groups: one to escort the president, another to control and keep the crowd away from the scene, and a third to direct the army, securing the escort vehicle from both above and on the ground.
The crowd was methodically guided out by the city police, while news crews swarmed the area, desperate to capture any detail of the unfolding tragedy. Headlines flashed across every screen, echoing in every conversation: "IS THE PRESIDENT DEAD?" — a question that now hung heavy in the air.
The Feds had arrived as well, requiring coordination with the Secret Service. At the forefront was Alexis MacArthur, the head of the agency, now in charge of the case after receiving the call that the president had been shot. He moved deliberately among the remaining agents, his presence commanding yet calm.
MacArthur asked cautiously, "Was the bullet recovered? We'll need to examine it thoroughly."
One of the agents, sensing the gravity of the moment, pressed, "What aren't you telling us?"
MacArthur lowered his head, sorrow etched across his face. "The president has passed away," he said quietly.
He paused, then added, "Before beginning the investigation, the immediate transfer of executive power must proceed."
The agent nodded, absorbing the weight of the news. MacArthur, letting out a measured sigh, continued, "That's your responsibility. As for me… I need to get in touch with the assassin's bullet."