Chapter 6: The Knife in the Back

Not long after, the President returns. I go to see him, hope flickering. He’s warm, even cheerful, and keeps me for an hour of chess.

When he’s finally satisfied, his tone turns heavy. "Henry… don’t blame me."

A cold dread creeps up my spine. Then, pain—sharp and blinding—erupts in my abdomen.

The scent of coffee curls from the table, steam swirling in the lamplight. I sink to my knees in the moonlit room, a whirlpool forming in the polished hardwood.

As I slip away, I hear Louise’s voice: "It is I who am incompetent, letting him live so long."

Charles was wrong. He thought Louise wanted me dead. But it was the President all along.

I remember the night we toasted victory together—now his knife is the only thing he offers. I can only laugh at my own stupidity. What peerless hero, what brotherhood—it was all a performance, as artificial as a handshake for the cameras.

The world snaps to black, then color bleeds back in—same chair, same ticking clock.