Cora and Alex sat motionless, the glow of the television flickering across their faces. They had expected a show, of course. The Chairman was always a showman. But this wasn’t an inauguration.
This was a reckoning.
The ceremony had begun like any other, with pomp and grandeur, the national anthem swelling through the cold January air, the flags snapping in the wind. But as the camera panned over the dais, it was clear that something was deeply, terribly wrong.
The men who surrounded the Chairman—his billionaire allies, war profiteers, corporate executives who had bled the country dry for decades—looked like they were barely holding themselves together.
Magnus Vail was the worst of them. The self-proclaimed architect of the new economy, the man who had seized control of the financial system itself, sat slumped in his chair, his head rolling back, eyes glazed and unfocused as he stared at the sky as if in a trance. His mouth moved faintly, whispering something unheard, something fevered, his fingers tapping at the armrest in a manic rhythm.
Alex let out a slow breath. “What the hell…”
Cora could hardly look away.
The others were just as unsettling.
One of the country’s former presidents, a man who had once stood behind the very podium now graced by the Chairman, was rocking back and forth, giggling, nudging the billionaire beside him like a frat boy too drunk to stand at his own party. Some were whispering to themselves, their pupils dilated, hands gripping their armrests as if trying to anchor themselves to reality. A defense contractor leaned forward suddenly, blinking as though trying to focus, his mouth hanging open slightly in a permanent, vacant grin.
“They’re high,” Alex said, his voice flat, disbelieving.
Cora swallowed hard. It was so obvious now.
They weren’t just high. They were drenched in excess, so drunk on power and wealth and whatever was coursing through their veins that they couldn’t even pretend anymore. They had won, and they were basking in it like gods drunk on their own creation.
And yet—his followers weren’t here to see it.
That was the part that struck her the most. The Chairman’s most devoted believers—the ones who had fought for him, worshipped him, thrown away their relationships, their families, their dignity for him—had been locked out.
They had stormed the streets, braved the cold, donned their black circles and waved their banners. But they weren’t allowed inside.
Barricades had been set up, checkpoints enforced. Armed officers stood in thick lines, keeping the Chairman’s own people at bay.
The ones inside were not the working-class patriots he had claimed to champion. They were the men who had always been in power—the hedge fund CEOs, the media barons, the real estate moguls, the war profiteers.
Cora watched as the cameras briefly panned to the crowds beyond the barriers.
They were standing in the freezing rain.
And still, they cheered for him.
They didn’t see the betrayal.
They didn’t see the Chairman’s closest allies lounging in their seats, drugged beyond reason, laughing at their own jokes while they watched a government they had never respected bow before them.
They didn’t see the truth.
The band stopped playing.
The Chairman stepped forward.
He did not place his hand on a Bible.
Cora felt Alex stiffen beside her.
For years, he had courted the evangelicals, convincing them that he was God’s chosen warrior, that his sins were forgiven because he alone would carry out divine justice. And yet, here he stood—taking his oath with an empty hand, his grin sharp, his eyes gleaming.
The preacher stepped forward, the token man of faith selected to lend the illusion of morality to the occasion. His voice was measured, reverent. He spoke of kindness and mercy, of humility and service, of loving thy neighbor as thyself.
The dais erupted in whispers.
Cora watched in shock as the billionaire class rolled their eyes, smirked, scoffed openly at the words being spoken. One of them leaned over and muttered something to Magnus, who let out a slow, languid chuckle before dropping his head back again, once more mesmerized by the sky.
They weren’t even pretending to believe it anymore.
Then, the Chairman approached the podium.
He raised both hands, silencing the cheering crowd. The wind carried his first words across the sea of people gathered outside the barricades.
“This is the day we take our country back.”
The crowd roared.
“For too long, we have suffered under weak men. For too long, we have let them tell us what we can say, what we can think, how we should live. For too long, they have stolen from you—your jobs, your land, your dignity.”
The words were crafted to perfection, meant to ignite something primal in his followers.
They weren’t weak. They weren’t losers. They were wronged.
And now, he would bring them retribution.
The camera cut to the faces of the politicians standing behind him—many of them the same ones who had once denounced him, who had once vowed never to let him take power. Now they stood in stiff silence, heads slightly bowed, as if waiting for his judgment.
He had won. And they knew it.
The speech continued, every line deliberate, weaponized.
He did not speak of unity. He did not call for healing.
He spoke of punishment.
The old order had failed. Now it was time for something new.
He did not say what would happen to those who stood in the way.
He didn’t have to.
Cora knew, as surely as she had ever known anything in her life, that there was no going back now.
The men on that stage, the ones too high to care, too powerful to be touched, too arrogant to pretend anymore—they had already decided what was to come.
And the Chairman was merely the figurehead, the voice delivering their message, rallying the mob to dismantle what little was left.
She looked at Alex, his face pale and grim, his hands clenched into fists.
Neither of them spoke.
They didn’t have to.
Because the truth had never been clearer.
This was not an inauguration.
It was a funeral for the old world.
And a war cry for the new.
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