The television studio was a cathedral of light and steel, built for the sermon of modern politics. From our war room, twenty blocks away, the gubernatorial debate looked like a meticulously choreographed play. On the central monitor, Liam Callahan stood at his podium, a portrait of civic virtue in a navy suit, his face a mask of earnest integrity. He was magnificent. He was a lie.
“The rule of law isn’t a suggestion,” he declared, his voice resonating with practiced sincerity. “It is the bedrock of our society. When I am your governor, I will ensure that no one—no corrupt corporation, no powerful individual—is above it.”
Victor stood beside me, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the screen. He hadn’t spoken a word since the broadcast began. The air in our command center was so still I c
