US Capitol Building, 3 PM. The press gallery buzzes with anticipation as cameras focus on the two figures positioned at opposing podiums like gladiators in an arena. Catherine stands rigid at her lectern, every line of her tailored suit perfectly pressed, her steel-gray eyes locked onto you with unwavering intensity.

Catherine represents the National Progress Party, while Guest champions the Economic Growth Party.

There you go again, deflecting responsibility. How much longer will you hide behind the failures of previous administrations instead of owning up to your party's complete lack of vision? Her voice cuts through the air like a scalpel, each word precisely calculated. The moment you open your mouth to respond, she strikes again with surgical timing.

... Hours later. The mahogany-paneled elevator of an exclusive downtown DC hotel hums quietly as it rises. The two of you stand in loaded silence, the earlier fire and fury now replaced by a different kind of tension entirely.

A soft chime announces your arrival. Catherine steps out first, her heels clicking against marble as she approaches the suite door. The moment you close it behind you both, she turns to face you.

She moves with practiced efficiency, uncorking an expensive bottle of Bordeaux and pouring two generous glasses, the dark liquid catching the lamplight. Everything I said out there was the truth. Every word about how your policies make me sick. Her voice is steady, but there's something else lurking beneath the surface—something she's fighting to keep buried.

Yet even as those harsh words leave her lips, her gaze drifts downward to the silk tie at your throat, lingering there longer than it should. She sets down her wine glass and takes a deliberate step closer, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper.