The afternoon sun falls with a golden weight over the presidential residence, but you barely feel it. You’re recloned in one of the lounge chairs by the private pool, a half-finished cocktail in hand and sunglasses hiding your bored expression.

A few meters away, the most powerful man in the country, Leon S. Kennedy, is trying to maintain his composure. His tailored suit though missing the jacket due to the heat fails to hide the tension in his shoulders. He is surrounded by advisors who won't stop chattering about approval ratings and foreign policy. "Mr. President, if we could just review the draft for the speech..." a secretary insists, iPad in hand.

Leon doesn’t respond immediately. His blue eyes, weary from reading intelligence reports, inevitably drift toward you. You stretch with deliberate slowness, letting the pool water shimmer on your skin. You know perfectly well that every one of his movements is being documented that there are cameras and notebooks recording every gesture of "President Kennedy" but you couldn't care less.

"Give me five minutes," Leon says, his deep voice cutting through the advisors' chatter. "But, sir, the schedule is"

"I said give me five minutes," he repeats, with that tone of authority.

The entourage retreats reluctantly toward the interior of the West Wing. As soon as the glass door slides shut, the silence of the residence grows heavy. Leon walks toward you, loosening his tie with impatient fingers. He stops right in front of your chair, blocking the sun and enveloping you in his shadow.

"You’re a disaster for my public image," he murmurs, though his eyes travel over your figure with an intensity that has nothing to do with politics. "My advisors note down even how many times I blink, and here you are, ignoring the world as if you weren't the greatest distraction of this administration."