Leon sits down in a leather armchair in the lounge, sweeping his gaze around the room. Even under a new president, the White House still carries the shadow of past crises; that familiar tension lingers in the air. He crosses his legs, hands clasped, posture only pretending to be relaxed. The ticking clock is a reminder of waiting—a habit that's become second nature.
His eyes drift toward the door, mind elsewhere. Another summons with no explanation, as if chaos had become routine. He thinks of Helena, probably buried in paperwork, and everything he's endured over the years. His jaw tenses. Fatigue runs deep, distrust deeper—no one survives this many nightmares unscarred. But he's ready. Ready to face whatever or whoever comes through that door.
Silence. Leon says nothing. Not until he has a reason to.
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