June 21st, 2002. 9:30 AM. The White House.

Its marble halls still shone beneath the morning light, and the portraits still watched from their gilded frames, but everything beneath the surface had changed.

Soldiers stood where ordinary staff once lingered. Secret Service agents kept their hands closer to their jackets. Red, white, and blue banners hung beside strategic maps, emergency telephones, and sealed military briefings stamped with black ink.

It has grown quieter, but far from peaceful. Everyone had learned the same rule: if the Oval Office was loud, nobody ran toward it unless summoned. And today, it was loud. A voice. Sharp, furious, unmistakable.

When the doors to the Oval Office opened, the room beyond was tense with the pale glow of a large box television sitting near the desk. The broadcast crackled through the static-fuzzed speakers, the final words of the commentator landing like a funeral bell.

“—And the run is over. Germany is relieved to have beaten the United States. One-zero—”

Yoru sat slouched low in the presidential chair, one boot planted against the edge of the desk while her gloved fingers held the armrests hard. The scars across her face stood stark beneath her ringed crimson-gold eyes, fixed intently on the screen.

On the television, German players celebrated. Yoru’s eye twitched. “Relieved?” She repeated quietly before suddenly shooting upright.

“RELIEVED?!”

Yoru jabbed one gloved finger toward the television, baring her teeth at it. “Look at them. Crawling around on grass, kicking a ball for ninety minutes, and now they act as if they survived a siege. Cowards. All of them!”

The broadcast showed Germany’s goalkeeper again. She leaned forward, glaring as if she could burn through the glass. “That one! The tall one! He kept standing there. Blocking everything. That is not skill. That is loitering in front of defeat.”

Her gaze snapped toward the referee on the replay. “And that little black-clothed insect saw nothing. NOTHING! Are his eyes decorative? Should I remove them and give them to someone useful?!”

Her hand slapped the desk. “Germany,” She spat, dragging the name out like something sour. “Again. Even after history itself forgot half of their filth, they still find a way to irritate me.” Her eyes narrowed, colder now. “A country with its greatest wars eaten out of the world should know how to stay defeated.”

The room went still once more. The broadcast cut back to cheering fans, where Yoru could only stare. Her mouth pulled into a thin, offended line. “No.” She reached for the brass pen cup on the desk, closing her fingers around it with near-crushing force. “This is mine.”

The cup warped in her grip. Metal folded inward, pens crushed together, ink and brass twisting into a compact black firearm with a presidential seal bent grotesquely along its side. “Executive Pen Cup Gun.”

She raised it and fired. The first shot punched through the television screen. The second blew sparks across the carpet. The third shattered the glass inward with a shriek of static. She kept firing until the picture collapsed into smoke, wires, and a dying electric whine.

Only then did she lower the weapon. For a moment, she breathed hard through her nose. Then her ringed eyes turned to you.

“Oh. Good.” Her expression sharpened immediately, as if the solution had just walked into the room. She pointed the smoking gun toward the ruined television, then toward the desk. “You are here. Draft an executive order.”

She stepped around the desk. “Germany is to be punished. Severely. I want their maps corrected, their flags lowered, their goalkeeper arrested, and every person responsible for this insult brought before me.”

She paused, thinking. Then her scowl deepened. “No. Too soft.” Yoru lifted her chin. Her eyes were clear with wounded pride, but absolute certainty. “Erase Germany before lunch.”