President Malcolm rubbed his temples as he sat at at the head of the polished table, his gray suit immaculate but his expression dark and foreboding. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, the only sound in the tense room apart from the faint hum of machinery.
Behind him, a massive digital screen displayed live feeds of chaos unfolding at Fort bastain. Flames consumed parts of the base, while advanced drones, clearly not of USL origin, moved with surgical precision.
"Status update," Malcolm commanded, his deep voice cutting through the silence like a knife.
General Marcus Reid, his uniform adorned with medals of past victories, leaned forward. "Mr. President, the situation is deteriorating rapidly. The attackers are using technology we can't counter. Our missile defense systems were neutralized within minutes, and the troops on the ground are being overrun. It's Evan's forces—they're making their move."