The iron doors groaned open, and one by one, the Chief's inner circle filed in.
No one spoke.
A dim light flickered from above, casting long shadows across the cold steel floor. The room was empty except for a long, narrow table surrounded by bolted chairs. At the far end, beneath the Conclave's symbol carved in obsidian, sat the Chief — legs crossed, one gloved hand drumming rhythmically on the tabletop.
A half-smoked cigar burned in an ashtray beside him.The scent of gunpowder and blood clung to his coat.
He didn't stand. He didn't need to.
"Shut the door," he said, voice low and sharp, like steel drawn across concrete.
A soldier obeyed, locking it with a hiss of hydraulics.
Silence.
Then the Chief slowly leaned forward. His eye — the one he still had — gleamed beneath the pale light. The other, hidden beneath a black patch scarred with claw marks, seemed to pulse like a buried warning.
"Foden."
The name hissed out like venom.
"That bastard had the gall to raise his fists to me. In this bunker. In my war room. You know what that means?"
No one answered.
He stood, slow and deliberate. His trench coat flowed behind him like a dark flag.
"It means this little fire we've built — this last ember of sanity in a goddamned world that's laughing while it rots — is under threat. From within."
He walked around the table, hands behind his back.
"You've seen what's out there. Smiling murderers. Clapping crowds at burnings. Children drawing death in chalk and calling it 'holy art.' We are not just soldiers."
His voice rose, gravel and thunder.
"We are the firewall. The last code in a system infected to the root. We are humanity's last line of defense. And I will not—will not—let insubordination be the chisel that cracks the foundation."
He stopped, planting both fists on the table. His breath steamed in the cold.
"Foden will answer for what he's done."
A long pause. Then, he straightened and walked back to his chair.
"If any of you disagree…"
He turned — slow, theatrical — arms spread like a preacher at the altar.
"Now's the time to raise your hand. Voice your thoughts. Play hero."
No one moved.
Not a finger twitched.
The silence was choking. You could almost hear their heartbeats — fast and fearful.
"No one?" the Chief whispered, head tilted with a mocking smile. "That's what I thought."
He slumped into his seat, pulled the cigar from the tray, and took a long drag. Smoke curled around his jaw like a demon's grin.
"Dismissed."
They turned and left without a word.
As the door slammed shut behind them, the Chief muttered to the smoke,
"You all want to save the world... until the world stares back at you."
He leaned back in his chair, exhaled, and whispered:
"Hold the line… or drown in the laughter."