While the plans to take the election were unfolding inside an unassuming room in a private airport—6,600 miles away from New York—a man was stepping out of a sleek black car in front of a towering glass-and-steel skyscraper. The night air was crisp, and the city's skyline shimmered with lights, but the moment he caught sight of the crowd ahead, his face hardened.
"Oh, God. Not again."
Harvey Lancaster sighed, shaking his head. He had hoped for a quiet entrance, a rare moment of peace before stepping into the chaos that had become his life. But the flashing cameras, the frantic reporters, and the sea of voices told him otherwise. The press had been waiting. Probably for him. Definitely for him.
He picked up his pace, trying to make it inside before they noticed, but it was futile. The swarm descended upon him in an instant, their voices merging into a deafening cacophony of accusations and demands for answers.
