Presidential Experience.

The live stream from the presidential villa started quiet. For a time, there was nothing—no gunfire, no shouts, just the dim glow of emergency lights illuminating the lavish halls. Then, in the distance, a single gunshot rang out. A moment later, another. Then another.

At first, the shots were sporadic, distant pops that barely registered as a threat. But as the minutes passed, they became more frequent, more desperate. The occasional bursts of automatic fire echoed through the corridors, accompanied by frantic shouting that was barely picked up by the microphones. The camera feeds flickered as security teams tried to maintain control, but it was clear—something was coming.

Panicked soldiers, their once-disciplined formations broken, stumbled into the villa in small, disorganized groups. Their eyes darted wildly, their hands clenched tightly around their weapons, fingers twitching on triggers. Blood smeared their uniforms—some of it theirs, some of it belonging to their fallen comrades. They barely acknowledged the horrified expressions of the political elite as they pushed past them, with the primal fear clawing at their minds.

The President's wife clutched the vice president's arm, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The Vice President, his face pale and glistening with sweat, stepped forward, his voice shaking but firm.

"Hold your ground! Do your duty!"

For a brief moment, the soldiers hesitated. Then, one by one, they tightened their grips on their rifles, gritted their teeth, and turned back and headed toward the encroaching darkness.

—-

At first, the soldiers obeyed, their training forcing them to follow orders despite the creeping dread. But as the minutes dragged on, the gunfire outside intensified, and hesitation crept in. Some soldiers stole nervous glances at each other, gripping their weapons tighter but taking half-steps backward. Others visibly trembled, their fingers hovering over the triggers, their discipline hanging by a thread.

Then, the first refusal came—a soldier standing near the grand staircase shook his head, whispering, "This is suicide." Another hesitated, his gaze flickering between his superior officer and the looming, blood-streaked doorway. Murmurs of doubt spread like wildfire among the ranks.

"Hold the line!" the Vice President barked, his voice desperate. But the fear had already taken root.

It wasn't until one of the presidential aides mentioned they were being broadcasted to the world that things changed. The realization hit them—they were being watched. Millions of eyes, perhaps even their families, were seeing them falter in real time. Disobedience meant not just dishonor but being remembered as cowards when the world was falling apart.

With renewed resolve, they snapped back to attention, some muttering curses under their breath before raising their rifles once more.

But then came the screaming.

Unlike the gunfire, which had been distant at first, the screams were much closer, raw with terror and agony. The kind of sound that stripped away all bravado.

The atmosphere inside the villa shifted. Soldiers who had moments ago stood firm now struggled to maintain composure. Their knuckles turned white around their weapons. Chests heaved with uneven breaths.

Then, the first group of bloodied soldiers staggered through the grand entrance. Their uniforms were torn, faces pale, eyes wild with fear. Some had deep gashes across their arms and legs, their wounds seeping crimson. One soldier's entire left sleeve was missing, his exposed skin covered in smeared blood that didn't seem to be his own.

The fear in the room was no longer just among the soldiers—it had spread to the highest-ranking officials. The First Lady, usually composed and regal, clutched the fabric of her dress with trembling hands. Her voice cracked as she gave orders, her once-authoritative tone betraying desperation. The Vice President, his forehead slick with sweat, tried to mask his fear behind sharp commands, but his darting eyes and stiff posture made it clear—he was just as terrified as the rest.

Their panic became more evident when they turned toward the surveillance cameras mounted in the room. The world was still watching. Faces drained of their usual pride and confidence, they pleaded—not ordered, pleaded—for extraction. Their voices, shaky but urgent, echoed through the villa:

"To our allies, to the United Nations—please, we need immediate evacuation! We are still alive! You must get us out of here!"

The broadcast was live. People across the world saw their desperation, their fear raw and unfiltered. The once-powerful leaders, who had once dismissed the urgency of the crisis when it was far from their doorstep, were now begging for rescue.

Orders were barked at the soldiers. A team of guards was sent to secure the helicopters stationed on the rooftop. It was their best hope for escape. Time was running out, and the walls of the villa felt like they were closing in.

But then, minutes turned into fifteen. Then twenty. Then thirty. And still—no word from the soldiers sent to prepare the evacuation.

"Why aren't they back yet?" the First Lady whispered under her breath, her knuckles whitening as she clutched the armrest of a chair.

Silence. Not just in the villa, but from the UN as well.

The broadcast continued, but no one on the other side of the world dared to speak. The security council members, the ambassadors, the world leaders who had been debating what to do mere hours ago, sat in silence. Some had their hands pressed together, watching with grim expressions. Others shifted uncomfortably in their seats, their throats dry. They could see the fear in the soldiers' eyes. The nervous glances, the way their hands shook around their rifles, the way they instinctively inched closer to exits as if debating whether to run.

They had watched many disasters unfold before, but this—this was different.

This was the slow, inescapable grip of death reaching toward people who once believed themselves untouchable. And now, the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable.

The First Lady, her face contorted with frustration and fear, screamed at the soldiers. "Do your duty! Do your damn duty!" Her voice cracked as she pointed toward the exits, demanding they move, demanding they fight. But the soldiers—bloodied, exhausted, and barely holding themselves together—stood frozen. Their hands gripped their rifles, but their feet remained planted. They had seen what was out there. They had seen their comrades torn apart, their bullets barely making a difference. They weren't just scared—they were broken.

Seeing their hesitation, the First Lady's rage boiled over. "Are you deaf?! I said move!" she shrieked, storming toward the nearest soldier. Her heels clicked furiously against the marble floor as she closed the distance. Without thinking, without caring, she raised her hand and struck him across the face.

A sharp crack echoed through the tense room.

The soldier's head snapped to the side, his breath hitching. A deep silence followed.

Then, with a slow, shaking movement, he turned back to face her.

His chest rose and fell heavily. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were wild and glassy with exhaustion, fear, and something else—something dangerous. His hands trembled, but not with fear this time. With something that had been buried beneath all the chaos, all the loss, all the senseless orders.

Rage.

Before anyone could react, he lifted his rifle and aimed it directly at her.

The First Lady froze. A sharp gasp left her lips as the cold barrel pressed against her forehead.

The room tensed. The vice president took an instinctive step back. Other soldiers stiffened, their hands hovering near their weapons, unsure of whether to act or let it happen.

For a moment, the only sounds were the distant, relentless gunfire outside and the faint, echoing screams that were growing louder.

Across the world, in the United Nations security chamber, the President of Zimbabwe was watching.

His face, which had been tight with worry moments before, suddenly twisted with fury. His breath became shallow, his fingers curled into a tight fist. His ministers sitting beside him flinched as they noticed the muscles in his jaw twitching.

"How dare he?" he muttered under his breath, his voice low and seething.

A soldier—his own soldier—pointing a gun at his wife?

This was beyond insubordination. This was humiliation. And worst of all, it was being broadcast to the entire world.

But back inside the villa, nobody was thinking about politics anymore.

The First Lady stared down the barrel of the gun, her breath shallow. The soldier's finger hovered over the trigger, his entire body rigid, sweat dripping from his brow.

The tension in the villa had reached a boiling point. The soldier's hands trembled as he kept his rifle trained on the First Lady, his breathing ragged. His fellow soldiers, uncertain and afraid, gripped their weapons but hesitated to intervene. Outside, the gunfire was relentless, the screams even more so.

Then, without warning—

CRASH!

The grand, reinforced glass window to the side of the chamber shattered into a thousand shards, spraying across the marble floor like jagged rain.

Two bodies came hurtling through, slamming onto the cold surface with sickening thuds.

A sharp, collective gasp rippled through the room. Soldiers instinctively raised their guns, their eyes darting toward the broken window, scanning for threats. The First Lady stumbled back, her face pale with shock.

One of the bodies twitched. Then, slowly—painfully—it moved.

The man groaned as he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, shards of glass embedded in his skin. Blood dripped from his uniform, staining the pristine white floor beneath him.

It was one of the soldiers who had been sent to set up the helicopters.

His breaths were ragged, his hands shaking violently as he clutched his neck. Blood pulsed through his fingers, flowing from a deep, gaping bite wound. His skin had already begun to turn a sickly shade of gray, and faint, glowing purple veins crept from the wound, spreading toward his jawline.

The other body, lying motionless beside him, twitched once—then went still.

A tense silence gripped the room.

The soldiers stared, their expressions shifting from shock to pure horror.

They knew what was about to happen.

The bitten soldier's ragged breathing turned into sharp, shallow gasps. His pupils dilated, his body convulsing slightly. His lips parted, but no words came—only a strained, gurgling noise. His fingers twitched as he struggled to hold onto himself.

The moment stretched unbearably.

Then—

A wet, inhuman snarl ripped through the room.