On the table next to his bed was a tablet. The MR. PRESIDENT! game was on the screen, but it had been modified. The pixelated agent now had a thin, red line on his leg. And the pixelated President wasn't running away anymore.

Thorne had no gun. No time. No plan.

President Cole looked at the tablet, then at the reinforced steel door that was beginning to glow orange at the hinges. “Marcus,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “They want me. Negotiate.”

The year is 2029. The world isn't on the brink of war—it's balancing on the edge of a razor.

President Cole, trembling, crawled out from the corner. He knelt beside Thorne, whose eyes were fluttering closed.

It was a joke, really. A training tool the tech squad used during downtime. In the game, you controlled a lone agent who had to dive in front of bullets to protect a slow, pixelated president. The tagline was always:

“This time,” the President said, “we do it together.”