Francis Cole stood in his opulent office, his gaze fixed upon the ongoing parade visible through the expansive window of his lavish loft. His perennial frown etched deeply on his face, he cradled the same brandy in a crystalline champagne flute, clutched by the same hand, pondering the same thoughts that had consumed him for days.

"We're more engrossed in amusement than the essence of survival," he mused, his gaze locked on the ongoing parade below. "Celebrating our independence with such fervor, oblivious to the sacrifices it demanded." He said aloud.

He turned, a ritual he observed every Independence Day, directing his attention to a cherished photograph. It depicted his grandfather and father, both adorned in the somber olive drab of the patriots, a poignant reminder of their legacy and the cost of their nation's freedom.

"Today marks 85 years," Francis began, addressing the room with a measured tone. "We are a young nation, but in that time, we've grown to become the economic powerhouse of the southern regions. It's taken the last 15 of these 85 years to convince the Senate that all of our armed forces need adequate funding, not just the navy, not just the air force."

With the grace and stealth of a panther, Francis moved lithely around the room, his deliberate steps and piercing eye contact causing a ripple of adjustments among his directors and guests. Ties were straightened, throats were cleared, and a tangible sense of anticipation hung in the air.

Satisfied with the effect, he proceeded to his designated seat at the head of the gathering. "We find ourselves at a critical juncture," he began, his voice commanding the room's attention. "The incident yesterday not only provides Elber with a pretext for further escalation, but their 'Training Corps' in Rozia has also overstayed their welcome by two months past the agreed deadline."

Francis's finger pointed to the southern border on a map, the very battleground that had witnessed the horrors of the Brush War. "I, like many of you, fought here. I witnessed firsthand how unprepared we were. Daygisi valor may have carried the day, but it came at a high cost—unnecessary casualties, friendly fire, the unjust detention of civilians, and even worse, defections across the region."

Francis shifted his pointed finger to the Daygisi-Rozian border, spanning much of the northern frontier. His gaze was intent, his words carrying the weight of conviction.

"I took it upon myself to address the Senate," he continued, his tone tinged with frustration. "I warned them that this very situation would unfold. They dismissed my concerns, more preoccupied with their trade agreements than the looming threat of invasion. Thankfully, the last three presidents have possessed military acumen. We now boast record numbers in the Marine Corps and Army. Problem solved, right?"

A voice of dissent emerged, breaking the silence. It belonged to an aide named Cecila Johanson, as indicated by her name tag.

"Ms. Johanson," Francis addressed her directly, "your brother serves in the Marines, correct?"

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Cecila nodded in affirmation.

"He is likely aware that, despite the Defense Minister's substantial orders for equipment from Varsta Atlas, these essentials have not reached the hands of our men and women. He probably knows that the same Defense Minister was arrested on corruption charges for selling surplus to Koria, an allied state, but not the intended recipient of that contract."

"He does," Cecila replied with composure.

Francis shifted his focus to a holoprojector resting at the center of the table, a tool that would aid his forthcoming presentation.

"My son has been chosen as the new Defense Minister," he declared, determination emanating from his every word. "However, certain members of the Senate dismiss the idea, branding both him and me as 'Warhawks.' I am committed to preventing another Brush War and ensuring we do not succumb to Elberian dominance. I have convened you here today, not only to hear my speech but to seize the opportunity that lies before us."

The holoprojector illuminated the room with a stark visual presentation. It depicted men clad in black tactical gear, easily recognizable as at least three battalions' worth, occupying the underground parking deck. The tension in the room grew palpable.

The next image unveiled a Senator, his identity exposed along with his phone records, all bearing the same international country code, +32—the Elberian code. Murmurs of concern and disbelief began to circulate among those present.

As the presentation continued, a series of images formed a comprehensive yet unsettling list. Senators, public officials, and even recent immigrants were laid bare, their names, affiliations, and potentially compromising connections painstakingly detailed.

The final slide offered a chilling blueprint of the Presidential Palace, accompanied by intricate motorcade routes and a step-by-step evacuation procedure for the President of Daygis. The gravity of the situation hung heavy in the room, casting a shadow over the gathered individuals.

"You possess this information, yet you've taken no action to prevent..." began an official, their voice trailing off hesitantly in the charged atmosphere.

Francis fixed the official with an unwavering stare. "Say it," he urged, his gaze piercing.

The official wiped a bead of sweat from their forehead, gathering the courage to complete their sentence.

"This assassination attempt?" They finished, their tone carrying an undertone of uncertainty.

"I've engaged in discussions with my son, numerous generals, and two senators," Francis responded, his expression grave.

"Regrettably, it appears that most of the others are complicit in the plot. As we speak, the President, Vice President, and Senate Leader are likely either dead or facing imminent danger. The Elberian Seventh Branch is responsible for much of what you've seen, except for the armed individuals; those are under my command. There are 340 sleeper agents within the Senate, with 200 of them being aware of their status. The remainder are playing both sides and profiting from the chaos. It's far too late to prevent what's about to transpire. But I am resolved to ensure there's no fifth column." His words weighed heavily on the room, the sense of melancholy palpable.

"So, this is a coup d'état... you intend to singlehandedly overthrow the government, for what purpose? To install yourself as President? Does Daygis truly require a dictator?" a skeptical voice questioned.

Francis responded resolutely, his tone unwavering, "I am purging the traitors from our Republic. I am saving our nation from the impending threat posed by Elber. Look at all this evidence, examine these contacts—do you believe it's a mere coincidence that none of those numbers connect? If we reveal this to the public, Elber could launch a preemptive strike. If we entrust the Senate, they may flee. And if we turn to the military, who knows how deeply the infiltration extends? Yes, I am taking steps to oust the traitors who have betrayed our country. Yes, I am striving to ensure that a Daygisi-controlled Senate assumes power. And no, I have no desire to become President," he concluded, his gaze falling on the man's name tag: Carl Oswal, a middle-aged man who had amassed significant wealth by investing billions in Elberian shipping firms. Francis had perused Carl's dossier multiple times but deliberately omitted his name from the list. This one, he decided, would live to witness the fate of traitors.