"Choose, Bisma," Minister Vance whispered chillingly. "Choose right now."
The Minister's voice hung in the air of the library study, cold, precise, and calculated to shatter the iron discipline Bisma had forged over six agonizing years of solitary confinement. The antique desk sat between them like a bloody barrier, covered in spilled amber scotch and shattered crystal, but the true battlefield had shifted entirely into the dark recesses of Bisma's mind.
The small tactical radio console beside the desk continued to crackle with high-decibel static. Through the speaker, the audio feed from the North Zurich garden position cut through the room like a serrated blade. Heavy, unsuppressed automatic gunfire echoed in rapid bursts, followed by the metallic clatter of falling brass shell casin
