Three days to the presidential elections.Three days until the city would either bend beneath the iron weight of Senator Moore’s promises, or splinter under the pressure of suspicions already boiling through its streets.That morning, The Capitol Eye struck first. Its headline was as clean and ruthless as a blade:FIRES AND FALSEHOODS: THE QUESTIONS NO ONE IS ASKINGBy Thomas RourkeThe piece spread like smoke from a hidden fire.Thomas didn’t hurl accusations outright—he didn’t need to. Instead, he threaded them carefully, mapping inconsistencies like a surgeon tracing veins beneath pale skin. Response times that didn’t match dispatch logs.Classified directives buried under redactions that contradicted open CIA memos.Mentions of “unofficial visitors” at the Superintendent’s office scrubbed from official schedules, yet captured in blurred surveillance frames.And most damning of all—two separate reports on the same day: one listing Superintendent Hayes as spearheading an anti-Mafia

The city had never looked this restless.Every streetlight, every bus stop, every half-broken lamppost seemed caught between two storms — the surge of hope and the swell of dread.Campaign banners snapped in the wind, frayed edges brushing across graffiti-stained walls. On some corners, Senator Stones’ face gleamed in crisp print — chin lifted, eyes burning with the promise of reform. On others, Senator Moore’s grin leered back at pedestrians, sharp as a knife hidden in velvet.From the skyscrapers of the financial district to the crumbling outskirts, the capital pulsed with noise and heat.Stadiums overflowed with Stones’ supporters, the air shaking with chants that rolled like thunder across the avenues. Handmade signs bobbed above the crowds: “The Future Is Stones” and “Our Flame of Change.” Drone cameras circled overhead, their lights winking as they streamed live feeds into millions of homes.Moore’s campaign, slick and merciless, fought back with shadows. Billboards smeared Sto

The café Whitaker had chosen was tucked away at a quiet corner near the old train station — an aging place with chipped wood trim and faint jazz music playing from a battered radio in the corner. Outside, the glow of election posters lit up the streets, plastered faces of Senator Moore and Stones staring down with hollow smiles, as if each already claimed the city for themselves.Jackson pushed through the door, scanning instinctively. His senses prickled with unease, though he told himself it was just the paranoia that came with meeting a man on the run.Whitaker was still there seated in the farthest booth, back to the wall, his coat collar turned up, a steaming cup of coffee untouched before him. He looked older in this light — not the sharp, iron-spined CIA man Jackson knew, but a soldier stripped of his armor.Jackson slid into the booth across from him. Neither spoke for a long moment. Outside the window, a bus rattled past, its headlights sweeping briefly across their table b

The news hit the capital like a hammer.At first, the broadcasters hesitated — showing only aerial shots of Precinct 17, black vans clogging the streets, officers moving like shadows under flashing lights. But as the morning wore on, the images grew bolder, the anchors’ voices sharper, louder, charged with something between outrage and dread.“Precinct 17 has been shut down indefinitely after what authorities are calling a targeted massacre. At least seven confirmed dead, including election supervisor Wilson Gibbs…”The screen cut to footage of Gibbs, smiling in some campaign office months ago, shaking hands with a mayoral candidate. The contrast between his warm grin then and the grim reports now made the city choke.And then came the detail no one could spin away:The message on the wall.“The Crescent remembers.”The phrase hit like a relic dragged up from a graveyard of history. It brought with it the stink of old wars — whispered factions, forgotten assassins, and bloodlines tha

“Director Whitaker,” President Jonesboro finally said, his voice firm. “This council has been debating since yesterday after we received the news of Wilson Gibbs death, which subsequently forced us to have the ongoing presidential elections postponed till we're sure what exactly it is that we're up against."He paused for a few seconds and then continued, "But I must confess that what you’ve presented tonight—the infiltration of the CIA, the compromised networks, the threads leading back to Hayes—cannot be dismissed.”Murmurs rippled through the cabinet. One of the ministers shifted in her chair, whispering something about the political fallout. Another warned of media backlash. But the President silenced them all with a raised hand.“We will not let this rot fester,” he continued. “Effective immediately, we authorize a full internal investigation of the Agency. Every branch, every directorate, every foreign liaison will be scrutinized. Director Whitaker, you will have my protection a