Two incidents, completely different in nature yet destined to intertwine, defined the night of January 23rd. On that night, the thickest fog in recent memory descended on certain parts of Washington, D.C., while simultaneously, a report surfaced that reignited tensions between the U.S. and Iran. The announcement of border skirmishes along the Iranian-Afghan frontier—initially shrugged off, even mocked—would soon take on new meaning in the days that followed.

By eight o'clock, the news spread through the halls of Congress, but by nine, the conversation in the inner lobbies had shifted. It wasn’t just about how far Iran’s supposed allies were pulling the strings behind the scenes. The real talk was about how The National Post, a conservative-leaning media outlet, had latched onto the story and thrown it right in the face of the current administration.

The editor and owner of The National Post, Lakely, had crossed the line before, diving headfirst into the murky waters of sensational journalism. But tonight, he went deeper than ever, running an almost inflammatory headline that suggested this seemingly small border conflict was part of a long-brewing scheme by Russia—a scheme growing under the so-called "drift" policies of the sitting American President.

The effect of this claim was electric. The opposition sensed blood, noticing the smug indifference on the faces of those sitting on the government side of the aisle. Meanwhile, the administration felt a creeping unease, suspecting that the interest stirred on the other side wasn’t random but perhaps an ominous sign of trouble brewing. Yet, despite the charged atmosphere, nothing concrete happened, and Congress continued its business until the session adjourned at half-past eleven.

The first to rush out of his seat was Jack Chilcote. He moved quickly, with a furtiveness that betrayed his preoccupation. As he passed the Secret Service agent stationed under the grand archway of the Capitol building, he swerved slightly, startled out of his thoughts by the man's presence. He corrected himself almost immediately, irritated by his own nervousness.

"Foggy night, huh?" he said, trying to sound casual.

"Yes, sir. It's getting thicker out west," the agent replied, his voice professional and unbothered.

"Ah, right." Chilcote’s response was absent, the cheery tone grating on him for no apparent reason. Irritated yet again, he walked past the man without another word, heading towards the Capitol's main exit.

At the gate, two headlights cut through the swirling fog like the eyes of a predator, and the familiar "Need a ride, sir?" reached him through the haze.

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He paused out of habit and stepped towards the waiting car. His hand was nearly on the door handle when a sudden impulse made him stop short.

"No," he said hurriedly. "I'll walk."

The driver nodded, and drove off into the fog with a screech of tires, leaving Chilcote standing alone. Still with a strange sense of urgency, he crossed the street, heading towards the White House.

The fog lifted slightly as he neared the National Mall, and the iconic statues lining the walkways emerged, ghost-like, from the mist. But Chilcote barely noticed; his gaze was unfocused, and he walked without paying attention to his surroundings. He crossed the street with practiced speed and entered Pennsylvania Avenue, heading left towards the White House.

There, the fog thickened again, and as he looked towards the Washington Monument, it seemed that the streetlights barely extended past the Treasury Building. Beyond that, there was nothing but dark, impenetrable mist.

Oblivious to the shifting light and darkness, Chilcote pressed on. To an observer, his movements might have seemed jittery, as if his nerves were frayed. He walked as though in a trance, yet every few steps, he would flinch at a sound or a passing touch, like a man whose mind and body were stretched too thin.

Despite the creeping fog and the increasing density of pedestrians, he moved forward, unaware of how quickly the night was closing in around him. The darkness thickened with each step, the cold damp air seeping through his clothes, the occasional brush of strangers in the fog becoming more frequent.

Then, suddenly, he stopped. Without realizing it, he had walked right into the heart of the fog—a wall of mist so dense that it swallowed the street, the cars, the people. The streetlights disappeared, leaving him trapped in an eerie, sound-filled darkness.

His first reaction was panic—a sharp, irrational fear of the sudden isolation. But almost immediately, a greater anxiety took over. How had he let this happen? How had he been so unaware, so distracted? His nerves buzzed with irritation at his own carelessness.

He started walking again but paused almost immediately, uncertain of his direction. Then, with a burst of nervous energy, he pushed forward once more, eyes wide open, one hand outstretched to feel his way through the fog.

The mist had closed in on him from all sides, blocking any hope of turning back. Around him, voices rose and fell—some cheerful, some confused, some angry. Every now and then, someone bumped into him, a sleeve brushing his coat or a hand touching his arm.

It was a surreal moment, a moment ripe with possibility, as the sounds of traffic—tires grinding on wet pavement, honking horns, and the occasional curse—created a strange, dissonant soundtrack.

Clinging to the left side of the street, Chilcote pressed on. His movements were increasingly frantic, almost driven by fear—fear of the fog, fear of the night, and, more than anything, fear of being alone with his thoughts.

At last, his hand brushed against something solid—the cold, reassuring surface of a shuttered storefront. A wave of relief washed over him, and he gripped the ledge tightly, as if anchoring himself to reality. With renewed determination, he moved forward again, clinging to the wall like a blind man as he pushed deeper into the fog.