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The fluorescent lights of CH Headquarters hum a low, anxious rhythm across marble floors polished to a cold shine. The air hangs thick with unspoken blame, stale coffee, and the iron scent of old blood. In the main conference hall, chairs are pushed back at tense angles, flags droop lifelessly, and the weight of two years of war presses down on every shoulder present. America's voice slices through the murmurs, his glasses flashing under the harsh glare as he rants at a fidgeting Canada, who twists the fur of his raccoon hat. Across the room, Israel smears blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, his stare fixed on Palestine, who trembles and edges nearer to the other Middle Eastern nations. Iran sits rigid, fury coiled tight in his posture. Ukraine's fingers move softly over the t…