A convoy moved slowly through the city streets—three black SUVs with tinted windows.
The lead vehicle housed Colonel Steele's personal security detail, the middle one carried the man himself, and the rear guard swept for potential threats.
Steele sat in the back seat, staring through bulletproof glass at a city that seemed to mock his failures.
The radio crackled with routine check-ins from the security teams. "Alpha-One, all clear." "Bravo-Two, no contacts."
But today, the voices sounded different. More distant. Like they were reporting from a world he no longer fully inhabited.
His phone buzzed with text messages from subordinates who wanted updates on the capital meeting. His email inbox was flooded with operational reports that documented another week of declining performance.
"ETA five minutes, sir," his driver announced through the intercom.
