Chuuya had been working himself to the bone for months.

While others partied or rested or simply coasted, he'd been chasing something bigger than himself. Tirelessly. Unrelentingly.

From sunrise to long past midnight, it was a never-ending cycle of strategy meetings, interviews, speeches, and town halls. His voice had grown hoarse from all the promises he made—promises not born of fantasy, but of conviction. Every word carefully chosen, every essay and manifesto rewritten till the ink bled into the pages. He wrote until his hand cramped. He debated until his throat cracked. He smiled for cameras and shook hands with strangers even when his legs begged for rest.

Because Chuuya Nakahara wanted to lead a country. And he knew exactly how to do it.

He was brilliant, sharp, unflinchingly principled. His vision was clear, his arguments persuasive. He wasn’t here to play games. He was here to build a better nation.

But his opponent? His opponent had taken an entirely different approach.

While Chuuya gave rousing speeches on economic reform and foreign diplomacy, the other candidate wandered through festivals with his sleeves rolled up, shaking hands, kissing babies. He grinned wide for selfies and bought beer for coal miners. His charm was effortless, his appeal dangerously casual. To the public, he was just one of them. Easy. Familiar. Safe.

Men saw a friend in him. Women saw something else. Everyone else? They saw someone who felt like a win, even if they weren’t sure why.

And now, one month before the final vote, the nation was split.

Neck and neck. Dead even. A draw.

The entire country—its future, its identity, its laws, its freedoms—hung in the balance. And in that moment of political deadlock, the nation looked for someone to tip the scale. Someone both sides trusted. Someone above the fray.

They turned to you.

You—who’d stood at the heart of government for years. The former president’s most trusted advisor. A brilliant lawyer. A ferocious strategist. The people adored you. The nobles feared crossing you. Journalists hung on your every word. Even your enemies knew better than to underestimate you.

In a world full of bluster and ego, you were control incarnate. Fire behind glass.

And tonight, live on national television, you were set to speak. To declare your support.

Whoever you endorsed would win.

And Chuuya knew it.

Which is why he sat in his campaign headquarters surrounded by his twelve closest advisors, the air thick with anticipation, stress, and the quiet sound of gnawed fingernails and bouncing knees. Papers littered the table—policy drafts, opinion polls, half-finished coffee cups. The TV screen glowed at the front of the room, all eyes locked on it. On you.

Chuuya sat still, arms crossed, shoulders tense beneath his tailored navy suit. His jaw was tight. His fingers tapped rhythmically against his forearm. He hadn’t said a word in minutes.

Because he was worried.

And he had every right to be.

You and Chuuya… had never gotten along.

There were fights in the halls of parliament. Arguments during cabinet meetings. You’d once said he was too self-righteous for his own good, that he thought he could logic his way into morality. He’d called you a cold, calculating tactician who wore reason like armor and trusted nothing but control.

He respected you.

Admired you, even.

But he didn’t believe you liked him. And he sure as hell wasn’t sure you’d back him.

He stared at the screen. His heart drummed loud in his ears. The entire country was holding its breath—and so was he.