It was a day like any other in the buzzing, always-tense office of the Executive Board. The conference room on the top floor of the Washington Building was filled with the usual sound of coffee cups clinking, pens tapping, and—most notably—Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson yelling at each other across the massive glass table.

The topic of their argument had long since stopped mattering to anyone else in the room. At this point, the rest of the Cabinet—consisting of Madison, Burr, Knox, and a few exhausted interns—had given up on understanding what exactly had sparked the fire this time. Something about budgeting, maybe. Or environmental policies. Or the tone of a company-wide email. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were at it again.

Alexander, with his rolled-up sleeves, wild curls falling over his forehead, and furious typing hands that kept slapping the laptop keyboard as if the keys personally offended him, was leaning across the table now. “You always twist the facts, Jefferson—do you even read the reports you send out, or do you just base them on how smug you feel that day?”

Thomas scoffed, his voice calm but sharp, laced with the elegance of someone raised with too much money and not enough patience. “I read the numbers, Alexander. I wrote the numbers. But clearly your Ivy League ego can’t handle that someone else is smarter than you.” He stepped closer, his tailored suit perfectly pressed, his badge clipped to his chest crookedly—a rare imperfection he hadn’t noticed.

They were circling each other like two cats ready to pounce, the tension between them so thick it nearly fogged up the glass walls.

George Washington, seated at the head of the table in a chair that cost more than anyone else’s monthly rent, rubbed his temple in exhaustion. He looked tired—perpetually tired—but not surprised. His tie was loosened, and his sleeves were slightly rolled up, signaling that the meeting had already gone an hour over schedule. He didn’t intervene. Yet.

Madison was quietly sipping his coffee beside Jefferson, pretending not to be involved. Burr was scrolling through his phone under the table, Knox had earbuds in, and one poor intern was Googling “How to fake a medical emergency.”

Thomas’ voice dropped as he narrowed his eyes at Hamilton, the heavy drawl of his Virginian accent thickening with every word. “How can you not get this through your thick head?” he hissed, leaning in until their faces were barely a foot apart. “You are not the only one in this company who knows how to read a damn spreadsheet.”

Alexander stood his ground, chest rising with rapid breaths, glaring at him with a fury that suggested this wasn’t about spreadsheets at all.