Washington, White House.
The presidential office was plunged into a tense, almost electric atmosphere. Seated behind his imposing desk, President Jonathan Kendrick stared at the grave and silent faces before him, searching in their gazes for a glimmer of confidence or comfort that he could not find. Around him were gathered his closest military advisors and the most powerful S-rank hunters in the country, forming a tight circle of individuals charged with protecting what remained of free humanity.
General Marcus Hayes stood near the window, his dark gaze lost on the White House gardens, now converted into makeshift camps overflowing with hungry, frightened, and desperate refugees. He sighed deeply, breaking the oppressive silence of the room:
