The jet leveled out above a pale, cloud-thinned sky, the cabin quiet in the way only expensive things managed, insulation so complete it felt slightly unreal.
Alex sat angled toward the window, one hand resting against his jaw, thumb pressing lightly beneath his ear where the dull throb still lingered.
Still there,
he thought, not annoyed, not surprised, just aware of it the way you become aware of an old injury when the weather shifts.
Naomi sat across from him with her tablet open, not speaking, scrolling through something she wasn't really reading.
Austin sar near the rear, posture relaxed in a way that wasn't relaxed at all.
The invitation had come through channels that didn't usually bend for anyone, let alone him, and it hadn't included a reason.
FSS,
Alex thought, the conclusion arriving in pieces rather than all at once.
Of course it's FSS.
He exhaled slowly, gaze drifting back to the wing outside.
Weapons calibrated for supernatural threats. Private militia infrastructure. Supply chains that didn't show up on public reports.
If the President wants me personally, it's not about consulting.
It never was.
The descent into D.C. cut through a haze that softened the city's edges, the monuments reduced to shapes before resolving into something recognizable again.
From above, everything looked orderly.
On the ground, it wasn't.
The motorcade was waiting on a secured strip, black vehicles already idling, doors opening before the jet had fully powered down.
The transition was seamless, practiced.
A handshake. A nod. Names exchanged that didn't need to be remembered.
Alex moved through it without breaking stride.
The car door shut with a muted, final sound, and the city began sliding past in controlled segments of glass and concrete.
Police presence was heavy but quiet, intersections already locked down in advance of their route.
There were signs of damage.
Burn marks on the sides of buildings. A boarded storefront that had been hastily repainted. A traffic light still hanging at a slight angle.
Less than yesterday.
Alex watched it pass, eyes steady.
Convenient timing,
he thought, the observation settling in with a faint, dry edge.
Everything calms down just enough for the cameras when it matters.
He didn't say it.
He didn't need to.
The White House perimeter didn't announce itself loudly, but the shift was immediate.
Barricades gave way to layered security, uniformed officers blending into plainclothes agents who weren't trying to blend at all.
The first checkpoint stopped the motorcade before the main gates, IDs verified against lists that had been cleared long before they arrived.
Doors opened.
They stepped out.
The air felt different inside the perimeter, quieter in a way that wasn't about sound but about control.
A second check happened on foot.
Metal detectors. Bags opened and inspected with efficient thoroughness. Eyes that didn't linger but missed nothing.
Alex passed through it with the ease of someone used to controlled environments, though not this one specifically.
Melodie would have hated this,
he thought suddenly, uninvited, a flicker of her expression crossing his mind before he pushed it aside.
Too many eyes. Too many rules.
He rolled his shoulder once as if that would dislodge the thought.
It didn't.
Inside, the corridors were narrower than expected, the ceilings lower, the history of the place pressed into details rather than scale.
A staffer met them at the interior checkpoint, mid-thirties, efficient, polite without warmth.
"This way, please."
They were walked, not escorted.
There was a difference.
Doors opened ahead of them, closed behind them, the rhythm of movement controlled without feeling rushed.
Alex noted the agents positioned at intervals, the way conversations stopped half a beat before they passed.
The building felt alive in a contained way.
The anteroom outside the Oval Office was smaller than it should have been for something with that much weight behind it.
Two chairs. A low table. A painting that looked older than everything else in the room.
They were asked to wait.
No one sat.
Naomi checked her tablet again, then locked it, slipping it into her bag.
Austin moved slightly to the side, positioning himself where he could see both the door and the hallway without being obvious about it.
Alex stood still.
Elaine would have said something by now,
he thought, a faint echo of her voice surfacing and fading just as quickly.
Some observation. Something sharp.
He swallowed once, the motion small.
The door opened.
"Mayor Farren," the staffer said, stepping aside. "The President will see you now."
The Oval Office was larger than the hallway suggested but not by much, the space arranged to feel open without actually being so.
President Ronald Miller stood as they entered, moving forward with an easy confidence that carried just enough weight to remind everyone in the room who it belonged to.
"Alexander," Miller said, extending a hand, smile already in place. "Appreciate you coming on short notice."
Alex shook it.
"Mr. President."
"Let's keep it simple," Miller said, gesturing toward the seating area. "Closed door. No recordings. Just us."
Alex nodded once.
He took in the room as they moved.
Miller.
A woman seated slightly behind and to the side, posture perfect, features… precise.
Two men opposite her, one already holding a tablet, the other with a notepad and pen he wasn't using.
Financial consultant. Strategist.
The woman didn't fit that category.
Alex's gaze brushed over her and moved on, something about her registering without settling.
They sat.
Miller didn't waste time.
"World's getting louder," he said, leaning back slightly, hands loosely clasped. "You've noticed."
Alex inclined his head.
"Domestically, we're holding," Miller continued, tone light but edged. "Barely. Internationally… it's a mess."
He gestured vaguely, as if the rest of the world was something he could point at.
"I've got countries that can't keep their own lights on, threatening sanctions," he said. "Got Curaçao making noise about 'defensive positioning' against Venezuela like they've got a navy hiding somewhere I don't know about."
A small, humorless smile touched his mouth.
"Everybody's brave when nobody knows what the rules are anymore."
The strategist shifted slightly but didn't interrupt.
"The UN," Miller went on, "was always more talk than teeth. Now it's bleeding out in public. Resolutions don't mean anything when no one agrees on what the threat even is."
He leaned forward a fraction.
"And while they're arguing definitions, my intelligence reports are telling me we've got organized groups forming across borders, aligning on one thing."
His gaze locked onto Alex.
"Us."
The word landed without force.
"Supernatural actors," Miller said, almost casually. "Some of them independent. Some of them… less so. Doesn't matter. My generals are moving assets, but conventional forces aren't built for this."
He paused.
"Not properly though."
The room was quiet.
"We need deterrence," Miller said. "Credible deterrence. Not statements. Not committees. Something that makes people think twice before they decide we're the easiest target on the board."
His eyes didn't leave Alex.
"And you," he said, "happen to run the most succesful operation on the planet that's already been thinking about this problem the right way."
Alex let the silence sit for a moment before responding.
"I understand the concern," he said, voice even. "I don't think I agree with the approach you're suggesting."
Miller's smile widened slightly.
"Good," he said. "Wouldn't be much of a conversation otherwise."
Alex rested his hands loosely together.
"FSS develops countermeasures," he said. "That's public. What isn't public is how those countermeasures are positioned."
He met Miller's gaze.
"Silver-alloy munitions are not a standard deployment asset. They're a strategic reserve."
Miller tilted his head.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning they exist," Alex said. "They are maintained. They are available. But they are not visible, they shoudn't be."
The financial consultant glanced up.
"Visibility is the point," Miller said.
"Visibility is escalation," Alex replied.
He shifted slightly in his seat, posture adjusting without tension.
"The moment you put those weapons in the hands of soldiers in a public capacity, you're not signaling readiness," he said. "You're declaring intent."
Miller's expression didn't change.
"You're telling every supernatural entity on the planet that the United States government has decided they are a military target."
"And they're not?" Miller asked.
"Some are," Alex said. "Most aren't."
He leaned forward a fraction.
"You lose the moderates immediately," he continued. "Any cooperative factions. Any neutral parties. You collapse the spectrum into two sides."
The strategist finally spoke.
"And you think keeping the weapons hidden avoids that?"
"I think it delays it," Alex said. "And delaying war is a goodthing."
He paused briefly.
"You don't escalate a situation like this unless you're prepared for the version of it where it doesn't stop escalating."
Miller watched him for a long second.
Then he leaned back again, exhaling through his nose.
"A weapon you can't show," he said, "is a weapon nobody believes you have."
"That's not entirely true," Alex said.
"It's true enough," Miller replied.
He glanced sideways briefly, leaning slightly toward the woman beside him.
Their voices dropped too low to catch.
She said something.
Miller nodded once, then looked back at Alex.
"Deterrence requires credibility," he said. "Credibility requires visibility. You want people to think twice, you let them see what happens when they don't."
Alex's jaw tightened slightly.
"And when they decide they don't care?" he asked.
"Then we handle it," Miller said simply.
"With what?" Alex pressed. "Conventional forces that aren't trained for this? Or specialized units equipped with weapons that now make them primary targets?"
Miller's smile thinned.
"You're arguing for hesitation," he said.
"I'm arguing for control," Alex replied.
He felt the faint pulse at his throat again, sharper this time.
Not now.
He ignored it.
"You integrate those weapons into standard units," he continued, "you normalize their use. You normalize the idea that this is a battlefield. That changes behavior on both sides. Not to mention going against the UN coexistence act."
Miller tapped his fingers once against the armrest.
"And if we don't," he said, "we're sitting on a stockpile of very expensive bullets that no one's trained to use when the time comes."
He leaned forward.
"Reserves that aren't used get cut," he said. "They get questioned. They get forgotten. And then one day you need them, and they're not there."
The room held the weight of that.
Alex didn't respond immediately.
He felt the shape of the argument settle between them, familiar and unmoving.
We're not going to agree,
he thought, the realization not new, just confirmed.
Miller glanced sideways again.
The woman leaned in slightly.
Another quiet exchange.
Alex didn't focus on it.
He was already running numbers in the back of his mind, not because he wanted to but because he couldn't not.
Production capacity. Distribution timelines. Political fallout.
Melodie would say I'm already halfway to saying yes,
he thought, a flicker of irritation at himself following close behind.
He straightened slightly.
"I'm not selling under those terms," he said.
Miller's gaze sharpened.
"Not even for the right number?"