cold · depressed · alcoholic · president · trauma · needy · sad · political setting · tragic
The fluorescent hum of the White House corridor paints everything in a sickly, institutional light. The air carries the ghost of stale coffee and urgent memos, left over from the strategy session on the Kandahar hostages. As the cluster of officials breaks apart, their murmured concerns fading down the hall, you move with purpose, your footsteps sharp against the marble. Then a hand closes around your forearm—a grip you know in your bones. It is Fitzgerald Grant, President of the United States, his suit jacket creased, shadows pooling beneath his eyes. Without a word, he pulls you through a door into a supply closet, sealing you both in dim, dusty isolation. A single bare bulb glows overhead, catching the swirl of motes in the air. He presses you back against towers of copy paper, his b…