Good Night, My president

Stay With Me

A subtle tension clung to the air of the conference room, thick as smoke. The Windbridge Front executive committee meeting had entered its third hour. Outside, daylight waned into dusk, while inside, the air grew heavier with every minute.

“If we’re really going to push this proposal,” Julien Serrat, the radical MP and one of the most outspoken critics within the party, said, his voice cool and precise, “then let’s stop pretending—we’re not reformers. We’re errand boys for the market.” He didn’t raise his voice, but each word struck the table like a chisel on stone—sharp, deliberate, and wounding.

Julien was a man driven by ideals—uncompromising and bold, a self-proclaimed voice of the "new generation" who had stormed into parliament with promises of true social change. But now, his criticisms painted him as an increasingly divisive figure within the Windbridge Front. He viewed the party’s drift towards pragmatic, market-driven policies as a betrayal of its founding principles, and he wasn’t afraid to voice it.

“Lowering corporate taxes for small businesses, scrapping youth hiring quotas, slashing local employment subsidies—do you really believe that’s what progress looks like?”

A deputy secretary furrowed his brow. “Julien, this is structural adjustment. The economy needs space to grow. Businesses need breathing room.”

“Oh, do they?” Julien sneered. “And the cost of that room to breathe—unpaid labor from suburban youth? Forcing mayors to fund training schemes from their own budgets? You’re not governing. You’re managing a consultancy.”

Cael, seated nearby, thumbed through the minutes, attempting to interject, but Julien raised a hand sharply. Not now. He turned his fire toward the head of the table—toward Elric.

“Do you remember what you said during the campaign?” Julien demanded. “‘Work is not obedience—it is dignity.’ And now what? We package that dignity into a PowerPoint presentation and hand it to Parliament like a quarterly earnings report?”

Elric finally spoke, his tone composed but unmistakably firm: “We are not here to win rhetorical points. We are here to govern. You accuse us of drifting right—but tell me, when our coalition partners threaten to walk away and our international credit rating is hanging by a thread—do you expect me to chant slogans? Or keep the country functioning?”

Julien stood abruptly, jaw tight. “Then stop calling yourselves reformers.”

The room erupted into quiet chaos. Some murmured support. Others sighed and rubbed their temples. Most simply stared down, trapped between the lines of budgets and political survival.

Elric leaned back in his chair, face unreadable—but his eyes had the glint of tempered steel. He understood: this wasn’t the end. It was only the first crack. And there was no turning back.

As they stepped into the hallway, Cael leaned in and said quietly, “If you don’t mend this fracture soon, we’ll be facing rebellion on the floor of Parliament.”

Elric said nothing, his gaze cast downward in thought. This wasn’t just dissent. It was a warning. The Windbridge Front was no longer ideologically whole. Its core convictions were beginning to splinter.

Back in his office, Elric stared at the briefing papers in his hands and exhaled slowly. “Do you remember the day you left Parliament?” he said. “I still believe that was the day this party truly began to fracture.”

The lights in the party hall were almost violent in their brightness. The Windbridge Front’s internal meeting had become a battlefield. Radical MP Roche Lefèvre was practically shouting, accusing the government of capitulating to the wealthy: “We pledged to fight inequality—and now we’re refilling the glasses of capitalists!”

Across the room, the centrist bloc sat stone-faced. At the center of it all, Elric—already a key figure in the party—replied with restrained conviction: “Every reform must be sustainable. Reckless taxation drives out investment and crushes the very middle class we claim to defend.”

Cael said nothing. He watched the combatants tear at one another for ideological dominance. He was already exhausted. Quietly, he slipped out of the room.

Cael had always had a finely tuned instinct for politics. He knew how to bridge factions, to read between lines, to hold a room together. But he was never a brawler. He had never understood why truth needed to be shouted to be heard.

Elric, by contrast, thrived amid conflict. The more chaotic the scene, the calmer he became. He had always belonged to politics.

Later, Elric found him in the garden outside the parliamentary building. The evening air was cool, the trees rustling in the wind.

“You know you didn’t have to leave,” Elric said gently.

Cael shook his head. “I’m tired of the shouting. I’m not someone who wins over rooms with speeches. I am not you...”

Elric stepped closer, eyes steady. “Then don’t be a parliamentarian. I need you here—helping me stay the course, in a different capacity.”

Cael looked at him, held his gaze. Silence lingered, then he gave a small nod. They had been together for over a decade. But now, the presidential candidate was offering him not just a role—but a place of influence, of trust. And that offer meant more than any proposal ever could.

The distant city noise mingled with the soft hush of the garden. Elric’s words landed with quiet weight. Cael had always known that politics was not just about reform—it was about power, about decisions that shape a nation’s future, even when the path ahead is uncertain.

And now, Elric was offering more than a title. He was asking him to stand beside him. Not just as an advisor—but as a compass. Not just in calm—but through the storm.

And to Cael, that promise felt more binding, more intimate, than any vow ever could.

Cael stood there for a moment, his gaze fixed on Elric. The evening light bathed them both in soft shadows, making the air between them feel even more weighty. He had always known this moment would come, but it still carried a weight he hadn’t fully prepared for. Elric wasn’t just asking for political support. He was offering something deeper—a partnership built on trust, a shared vision of the future. It wasn’t just about navigating the political landscape anymore; it was about shaping it together.

“I didn’t expect this,” Cael finally said, his voice quieter than usual. He hadn’t expected Elric to reach out like this, not after everything that had happened between them, not after the battles they had fought separately. But the sincerity in Elric’s eyes made it hard to ignore.

Elric stepped closer, his hand brushing Cael’s arm in an almost imperceptible gesture of connection. “I need you, Cael. The party needs you. You know how to balance everything—the ideology, the strategy, the people. I can’t do this without you.”

Cael took a deep breath, looking out across the garden, the rustling trees providing a strange sense of calm. But beneath that calm was a current of tension—politics, loyalty, and a future that still felt uncertain. He thought of the years they had spent navigating these turbulent waters together, each of them always pulling in opposite directions, yet always finding a way back to each other.

“I can’t promise everything will be easy,” Cael said slowly. “But I’ll be here. For you. For us.”

The words felt heavier than they should have. But there was a weight to them, a shared commitment that wasn’t just political. It was personal.

The city sounds seemed to fade away as the two of them stood there, an unspoken understanding settling between them. Elric was right. The path ahead was unclear, full of obstacles and unknowns. But as long as they stood together, they could navigate it—no matter how difficult the journey. The storm may come, but they would face it as one.

And that, to Cael, was a promise that felt more solid than anything else.