Chapter 4: The Breaking Point

A crisis unseen in centuries was at hand, and Adam Lee, inside the White House, suddenly felt that the world hadn’t changed in centuries. He wandered the halls at night, the weight of history pressing in—portraits of old leaders glaring down, their eyes full of silent judgment. The cycle of mistrust and ambition never broke.

It was still one administration’s heart competing for the hearts of the people, one person’s heart contending for the fate of a nation. He wondered if any leader, in any era, had ever truly broken free. The machinery of power ground on, indifferent to idealism or suffering.

The government cared nothing for the survival of America, Mrs. Delaney cared nothing for the survival of the government, regular Americans holding military power would shake the administration, and he himself holding military power would threaten the First Lady’s authority—it was all the same principle.

The logic was circular, suffocating. Adam Lee saw it clearly, and the clarity stung.

Adam Lee smiled bitterly. Fine—the unchanging pattern of centuries. Someone has to break it.

He closed his eyes, steeling himself for the battles to come. Change had always come at a cost.

Tomorrow’s hero hasn’t appeared yet. Today, I happen to be here—so who but me?

He straightened his tie, squared his shoulders, and resolved to be the one. If not him, then who?

In those five years, Adam Lee cautiously sought opportunities again and again, met many people—some of whom died at the hands of Mrs. Delaney, but still, some escaped and made a name for themselves.

He’d mapped networks in the shadows, whispered in parking lots and smoky backrooms, never sure who was friend or foe. Each loss weighed on him, but he never gave up.

Five years passed in the blink of an eye. His reflection aged, eyes more haunted, hair streaked with gray. The calendar pages blurred together, each one marked by small victories and bigger setbacks.

The Japanese, taking advantage of the Korean coup, invaded Alaska, their fleet charging straight into the Pacific. Countless Americans died under Japanese guns. Adam Lee read these battle reports again and again, his eyes blazing—yet unable to act.

He read casualty lists until the words blurred, the fury building with each fresh atrocity. The impotence was maddening. The images in the reports were grainy but unmistakable: smoke rising over ruined neighborhoods, families running for cover, foreign troops swaggering through what used to be safe streets. Adam Lee’s hands shook as he turned the pages.

In their eyes, Americans of every background weren’t even human. The invaders didn’t care if you were Black, white, Latino, or Native—pain and humiliation were handed out without discrimination. That, more than anything, gnawed at Adam Lee’s soul.

Wherever the great powers passed, families were torn apart, homes reduced to ashes, and children lost in the chaos. These children, just a moment ago, had been asking their parents to hold them; the next moment, they were gone—swallowed by the violence. He forced himself to read every word, to honor the dead with witness, even as bile rose in his throat. He saw his own children in those lines, remembered lullabies sung in safer times.

He shut his eyes, wishing he could banish the images, but they clung to him—accusations sharper than any bullet.

But the crying didn’t last long. Their voices faded, drowned out by the harsh laughter of foreign soldiers, by the chaos that followed in their wake. The cold laughter echoed in his skull, a sound he knew he’d never forget. It fueled his resolve more than any patriotic speech ever could.

These scenes came from the notes of fellow citizens, from reports by still-conscientious war correspondents, all arriving at Adam Lee’s desk. He spread them out, paper covering every inch of the desk, the ink smeared by angry hands. The press might have been muzzled, but some truths couldn’t be hidden.

Adam Lee closed his eyes, saying, “Send all these to the Old Lady…” His voice was hoarse, words catching on grief. He wanted Mrs. Delaney to see, to feel, to act.

Halfway through, Adam Lee suddenly stopped, because he knew Mrs. Delaney wouldn’t look, nor did she want to. A few days ago, someone had advised her to use her birthday funds to resist the Japanese, and Mrs. Delaney flew into a rage. He remembered the way she’d slammed her fist on the table, the pearls at her neck trembling with fury. No one dared speak out after that.

Mrs. Delaney said, “Whoever makes me unhappy today, I’ll make them unhappy for life.” The words hung in the air, heavy as a sentence passed down by a judge. The staff exchanged nervous glances, everyone calculating how to stay in her good graces.

With her sixtieth birthday at hand, not a single piece of bad news could reach Mrs. Delaney’s ears. The halls filled with the sound of forced laughter and clinking glasses, as if the world outside had simply ceased to exist.

These days, Mrs. Delaney only wanted to enjoy herself, only wanted Adam Lee to kneel before her and call her Mom, kneeling at the lakeside estate, then Main Street, then the White House.

He played the part, each bow and whispered word another betrayal of his true self. He wondered if there would ever be a reckoning.

After a day of kneeling, Adam Lee slumped at his desk, the vast night behind him. He looked down at the notes and reports, the writing so vivid that the ruined towns and lost children seemed to leap before his eyes. Outside, the Chicago wind howled, rattling the windowpanes. The city lights blinked like distant candles, and the loneliness was absolute.

The pent-up anger of five years, the negotiations and compromises of five years, finally collapsed all at once. He gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white, swearing he’d never let another child’s name become just another casualty list.

On the second day of October in the twentieth year of Grant’s rule, with the stars and moon high and the north wind howling past the White House lawn, Adam Lee suddenly raised his head from his desk. He wiped his eyes, steadied his breath, and felt something shift inside—a resolve as cold and sharp as the wind outside.

He said to the aide beside him, “Andy, go tell Ben Carter, I’m done talking. Tonight we act—whether he comes or not, if I don’t act now, I’m not the President, not the leader of this nation.”

He locked eyes with Andy, the young man’s face pale in the lamplight. His voice rang with a conviction that left no room for doubt. The moment had come.

The aide was deeply moved, saying, “Sir, Ben Carter’s intentions are hard to gauge…” Andy hesitated, fingers twitching at his side. He looked every bit the loyal staffer, torn between fear and hope.

“Affairs of the nation don’t allow hesitation. What I do carries the hopes of the people. I am the chosen one—what private interests are there?” His words were a thunderclap in the quiet room. He saw Andy straighten, resolve flickering in his eyes. The old American faith in destiny—the belief that one person, in the right moment, could change everything—was alive again.

The aide shuddered, his eyes bloodshot. He knelt, just about to bow, but Adam Lee pulled him up, saying in a deep voice, “Go.”

He gripped Andy’s shoulder, meeting his gaze with a look that said: We’re done with the old ways. It’s time to stand up, not bow down. Andy nodded and disappeared into the night, his footsteps echoing down the silent hall.

Tears streamed down the aide’s face. He turned and left the vast, silent West Wing.

For a moment, Adam Lee watched him go, the doors swinging shut behind. It was the beginning of something new—or the end of everything.

Five years—Adam Lee looked into the endless darkness: How have I lived these five years? How many people have I met, how many secret memos have I issued, how many have I won over in countless ways…

He thought of every handshake, every whispered deal, every hope traded and lost. The memories stacked up like dominoes, threatening to topple at the slightest push.

After tonight, I kneel to no one.

He whispered the words to himself, savoring their taste. The burden of subservience lifted, if only for a moment.

After tonight, dignified America—how can it allow clowns to run rampant!

He stood and strode to the window, staring out into the vast darkness beyond the White House lawn. Somewhere out there, the real America waited to be reclaimed. Tonight, the White House would tremble—not from foreign guns, but from the storm he was about to unleash.