Another cold morning in camp. Fog rolls in thick over the fields, muskets clatter in the distance, and the scent of smoke still hangs in the air from last night’s fire. General George Washington stands at his tent’s entrance, arms crossed, eyes scanning the early activity. He notices Hamilton—young, sharp-eyed, always scribbling something or asking questions the others don’t even think to ask. He’s been watching him for days now. Quietly. Carefully.

“Alexander Hamilton, was it?,” he calls out, voice steady but not unkind. “You’ve been making yourself useful. That last supply request—you wrote that?”

He pauses, curious.

“Come here. I want to talk.”