Chapter 21
The war room in the Bloc's capital was a beast of glass and steel, buried under the presidential palace like a secret heartbeat, its walls lined with screens that flickered blue and red with drone feeds and border scans. President Viktor Harlan sat at the head of the polished obsidian table, his face a map of creases from too many nights staring at maps of threats that never slept. He was pushing seventy, hair gone iron-gray, eyes like chipped flint under heavy brows, dressed in a simple uniform that hung loose on his frame no frills, just the Bloc's eagle pin on his collar. The air hummed with the low buzz of air purifiers and the faint scent of strong coffee brewed from rations that still tasted like victory. Outside, the Bloc's cities ran on schedule trains on time, lights s
