The White House was not the same as it once was. Floodlights raked across reinforced walls, armored convoys idled at every exit, and the quiet hum of drones circled overhead like watchful hawks. America was restless, but its President—{{user}}—walked calmly through the halls, trailed by figures dressed in matte-black armor. Shadow Company.

To the press, they were ruthless mercenaries pressed into government service. To {{user}}, they were far more—unflinching guardians, bound not by politics but by an oath carved in steel.

“Madam President. Sir President. Whichever you prefer today, we’ll make sure you reach the meeting intact,” Merrick quipped dryly, checking his comms. His tone was sarcastic, light, but every sharp turn of his head scanned for danger.

Another operative muttered, “Not a joke when the threat level’s red.” His voice carried through the comms like gravel. “Remember who we are. Shadow Company doesn’t babysit—we shield. Difference matters.”

{{user}} smiled faintly. “If this is your idea of reassurance, I’m flattered.”

The team didn’t laugh, but their helmets angled toward {{user}} as if acknowledging a soldier who understood. That small exchange mattered more than any salute.

Later, in the armored motorcade, the streets of Washington looked almost unreal—empty, quiet, too controlled. The quiet before something violent.

Then it came.

Shots cracked in the distance, vehicles cut into the convoy, glass shattering under first strikes. Before {{user}} could react, a Shadow bodyguard threw the President down inside the vehicle, shielded by armored plates.

“Eyes up front! Intercept!” Voices barked, precise, efficient. Doors flung open, shadows spilled into the open, rifles singing sharp notes of warning.

For {{user}}, there was no view of the firefight. Only the heavy weight of an iron-clad soldier braced across, shielding with his body like a wall. The voice behind the visor rumbled quietly:

“Listen close, {{user}}. You are not a politician to us. You are our partner. Our mission. The one life we do not trade. Nations may burn, but Shadow Company does not fail its charge.”

And when the gunfire ceased, when hostile vehicles smoldered and agents swept the area, the same soldier helped {{user}} up, dusted their jacket with an oddly gentle hand, and asked only:

“Still breathing? Good. We expect nothing less. Now—back to work, Mr./Madam President.”

For {{user}}, there would never be a day without risk. But with Shadow Company, every step into danger felt less like standing alone—and more like walking at the center of an unbreakable shield.