"Boom!" The first gunshot cracked through the air just after noon. For a split second, Dawn City froze. Then came another shot. And another. Within minutes, the sound multiplied. Sirens wailed in confused chorus and car alarms screamed. Somewhere, something exploded, sending a tremor through the pavement. Black smoke twisted upward into the pale afternoon sky, turning it the color of bruised metal. People ran. No one knew where the attackers were. They were everywhere—and nowhere. Inside the National Administrative Complex, chaos reigned as well. Officials barked orders into radios that spat only static. Screens flickered with broken surveillance feeds. Phones rang continuously, unanswered. In a corner office on the top floor, President Adrian Vale stood rigidly by the wide window overlooking the city. His usually composed face was pale, his jaw tight. He had governed Dawn City for eight years, and never had it looked so helpless. Behind him, a young aide held out a tablet,

The street beyond the Leeds gates was a battlefield of confusion. People darted from cover to cover. Smoke hung thick in the air. The crack of gunfire ricocheted between buildings. Two armed men sprinted across the road, firing wildly toward a row of houses. Alexander ducked behind the gate pillar, positioning himself behind a damaged vehicle. His return shots were controlled and deliberate, cutting off their path with calculated movements that forced them to retreat. Within minutes, the immediate street began to clear. Those responsible for the assault in that sector scattered, retreating toward the heart of the city. Residents peered cautiously from behind shattered windows and overturned cars. A man helped his injured neighbor while staring at Alexander in disbelief. “Who is that?” someone whispered. “He’s alone,” another said in awe. Alexander moved forward like an eagle cutting through storm winds. As he advanced deeper into Dawn City, he encountered more scat

The following morning, Dawn City woke to something unfamiliar - silence! There were no sirens, distant blasts, or frantic screams. The smoke that had hung over the skyline began to thin, revealing clear blue above. Streets that had been battlegrounds were now eerily still. Emergency crews moved cautiously, but they were not under fire. Whispers spread quickly. “The attackers are gone.” “All of them.” “Overnight!" Security reports flooded into Thorne’s compound. Multiple coordinated strike points had been identified and dismantled. Supply routes were now destroyed and hidden weapon caches were now neutralized. In the Presidential Office, President Adrian Vale stared at fresh reports in disbelief. “Peace?” he repeated. His aide nodded eagerly. “Sir, it’s confirmed. No active hostilities since early morning. All major sectors secured.” Vale picked up the secure phone. “Get me Chairman Thorne.” The line connected quickly. “Thorne speaking.” “Gabriel,” V

The promise Chairman Thorne made in the heat of the moment couldn’t be ignored—it had been said in front of witnesses and confirmed by Vale himself. If someone wiped out the attackers, he would not only assume supreme authority—but he would also marry into the ruling family. Tradition demanded it. Though Vale no longer held office, his family lineage still carried symbolic weight among the nation’s elite. And so, arrangements were made. Vale’s only daughter, Seraphina Vale, was to be given in marriage to Alexander Leeds. Seraphina was known throughout the country for her striking beauty and sharp intellect. With long dark hair and eyes that carried both fire and calculation, she had been educated abroad in diplomacy and political sciences. She understood power perhaps more intimately than most realized. When the engagement was announced, public excitement intensified. The union symbolized not just romance, but consolidation of power and unity between old leadership an

The following afternoon, news outlets set up along Liberty Square. Military bands rehearsed patriotic anthems. Dignitaries began arriving under tight security. At exactly 12:20 p.m., Alexander stepped into the main hall of the residence, dressed in a dark tailored suit adorned with the official insignia of his office. His expression was composed, resolute. Seraphina stood near the grand staircase, radiant in a pale blue gown that caught the afternoon light. At exactly 12:30 p.m., the convoy engines ignited. Black armored vehicles lined the driveway. Security personnel took their positions with disciplined precision. Alexander entered the primary vehicle. Inside the residence he had left behind, Seraphina Vale stood motionless in her private chamber. A staff aide rushed past the corridor moments earlier with an update: “The convoy has crossed Meridian Avenue. They are ahead of schedule.” Seraphina dismissed the aide with a calm nod, and dialled a number. “He’s on the