Meanwhile, in the Situation Room, the Vice President is discussing the crisis with his assistants and generals. After several hours, they pause, as no one has any new ideas to resolve the situation.

The atmosphere feels grey and hopeless.

"What should we do?" A general asks the Vice President.

"I have no idea. We tried bombing it, but that didn't work. We sent troops to swim across the Hudson River, but the field even reached the waters. We tried to communicate with the inside, but something seems to be jamming our signals. How about we try digging a tunnel?"

"That wouldn't work. It would take a whole company just to build the tunnel. It would be so loud and large that the terrorists would notice, and they'd ambush us before we even get close. Using the sewage system isn't feasible either, as we can only transport small, light weapons." The intelligence analyst says.

"See? So, to answer your question about 'What should we do?' We've already done everything, and none of it worked."

"So, are we just going to wait for some miracle to happen?"

"Right now, yes. The terrorists must have planned this carefully. They wouldn't capture an entire city for nothing, knowing they'll soon run out of food and fuel and eventually be eliminated by us. They'll ask for something in return for the city's freedom."

"Something? Like what? What could we possibly have that's so valuable that they would take an international city and our President hostage?"

"I don't know. Whatever they ask for, we have to consider it carefully—whether it's money, revenge, or something else. But for now, we wait… at least until they make contact with us."

As soon as the Vice President finishes speaking, the assistant standing beside him touches his shoulder. "Sir, we've received an incoming video call to the White House. Our agents have answered, and they say they are the ones holding the city hostage. Their leader wants to speak with you. They're waiting for our response."

"... Well, things are moving quickly, aren't they? Show it on the screen."

"Yes, sir." The assistant nods and, following the Vice President's order, the TV screen at the end of the room automatically switches to a new display, controlled by the technicians. At first, the screen is a bit laggy and static-filled, but after a few seconds, the signal stabilizes. A man appears on the screen, with features suggesting he is Arabic.

"Hello, Mister Vice President, Generals, Ministers, and everyone else in the room. I assume you've figured out everything by now?" The Arabic man greets the Vice President.

"Yes, and may I ask who you are?"

The man leans closer to the screen, resting his forearms on the desk, parallel to each other.

"Well, let's skip the small talk and get to the point. As you all know, we are holding your president and the lives of millions of New York City civilians in our hands—"

"Nope." The Vice President cuts him off.

"I'm sorry?"

"First, prove that you're holding President Mikael captive."

"... If you say so..."

The man stands up from his chair and walks away from the camera. The people in the Situation Room watch the screen, their curiosity and anxiety mounting. They sit in stunned disbelief when he returns with the "proof". As he reappears on the screen, his right hand drags another chair with him.

"Oh my God!"

"Mmmhhh! MMMHHH!!"

President Mikael is bound to a chair, his mouth and eyes taped shut, preventing him from screaming for help or finding a way out.

"Is this good enough? Oh, and as a bonus, I'll give you a warning. If you do anything suspicious or dare to fight against us, get ready to prepare a box for your president... No, actually, make that two boxes. I'll be preparing him with this."

The man pulls out an axe, its blade gleaming with an eerie, almost menacing shine. Yet, what terrifies them even more is his threat to use it against the President. To prevent the situation from escalating further, everyone composes themselves and pays close attention.

"Alright, let's hear your demands." One of them says cautiously.

The man shoves the President's chair out of view of the webcam and sits back down, resuming his earlier posture.

"First, we demand the immediate withdrawal of all your troops from Afghanistan and the unconditional removal of sanctions on Cuba."

The Vice President nods, signaling for the man to continue.

"Second, hand over West Germany to the control of East Germany's gover—"

"I'm sorry, what?" The Vice President interjects, caught off guard.

"Oh, sorry for my bad English. Ahem, let me repeat: hand over West Germany to the control of the Soviet Union. Is there a problem?" The man asks, his tone sharp.

The Vice President straightens, his voice measured but firm. "I'm sorry to say we can't agree to that. Withdrawing troops from Afghanistan and lifting sanctions on Cuba, those are acceptable. We've been discussing those for years. But giving up a major allied territory, especially Germany? That would plunge us into chaos, and it could even lead to war."

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Before the Vice President can finish his sentence, the man drags the President back into view of the webcam and raises the gleaming axe. "Well, I guess we have no choice but to..."

"Whoa! WHOA! OKAY, OKAY! Just give us a week, and we'll consider—"

The man's response is swift and brutal. He brings the axe down, slicing into the President's leg.

"AAAHHHHHHHHMM!!!!"

The President's scream fills the room, muffled but agonizing, as blood pools beneath him. The President screams helplessly, his mouth and eyes taped shut. He doesn't even know what's been done to him, unable to ask for help. His muffled cries are either swallowed by the soundproof room or fall on deaf ears, with no one available to save him.

"Okay, TWO DAYS! Give us two days, and we'll consider it! But if you hurt him, we can't give you what you want!" The Vice President pleads, his voice trembling.

Fortunately, the cut isn't deep enough to cause lasting damage. With proper treatment, the President's leg could fully heal. The man, however, remains emotionless as he lowers the axe, his demeanor cold and calculated. The way he executed the act makes it clear, it was deliberate, a chilling message that he isn't bluffing.

"Hmm... Well, I suppose there's no point in continuing this conversation. I'll give you two days to decide." The man says, his tone cold and final. "And if you reject our demands at that time, well, prepare the boxes. Choose wisely, Mister Vice President."

With that, the man ends the video call. The room falls into a heavy silence, the weight of the situation sinking in. Everyone realizes they are facing a threat potentially more devastating to America than 9/11, one that might leave scars impossible to heal, even once it's over.

"Does anyone know who that man is?" The Vice President asks, his voice strained.

An intelligence officer steps forward, her face grim. "According to our sources, he calls himself Gabriel. He's one of the Taliban commanders we attempted to assassinate. The mission failed, though. Instead, we accidentally killed a woman and her child."

"What?! How did that happen?"

"The assassin we sent misfired." The intelligence officer replies, her tone subdued, and then, a collective sigh echoes through the room.

"Maybe this is about revenge?" Someone in the room suggests.

The vice president shakes his head. "He's making political demands. If it were revenge, that's not what he'd be asking for."

"Then why on earth is he asking for these things?"

"I don't know." The Vice President admits, his face clouding with unease. He rests his hands under his chin. "But I have a very bad feeling about this."

...

...

...

"Seven hours... I think that's enough." Neil mutters to himself.

Seven long hours have passed since Neil used the water torture technique on the defiant terrorist. Deciding that waiting any longer would be pointless, he heads back down to the basement, Mike and Nick trailing behind him. The students remain upstairs on the ground floor, anxiously waiting.

"Hello there again!"

Neil steps into the basement, greeting the terrorist as he flicks on the light, revealing the man staring down at his own feet with a strange, unsettling intensity.

"Daddy toes, daddy toes, where are you? Here I am, here I am, how do you do? Eheheh." The terrorist mutters.

Unable to see his fingers because they are tied behind him, he resorts to using his toes, almost as if performing a twisted game.

"What have you done?" Mike yells. "You've turned him into a lunatic! Now, instead of talking, he just sings nursery rhymes."

"Oh, you're back!" The terrorist, who had been lying on the floor, gazes up at Neil with an unsettling mix of happiness and excitement.

Neil raises an eyebrow. "How do you feel right now?"

"I feel lightheaded," the terrorist responds with a giggle. "I haven't moved for hours, so I can't feel my body anymore, but I can still see everything, even in the darkness! I talked to a spider in the corner. What a cute little spider! I told him to bring me some food, but he just stood there."

Neil ignores the rambling, his voice sharp as he cuts to the chase. "Where is your headquarters?"

"..."

The terrorist remains silent, his defiance clear. With a heavy sigh, Neil turns around, signaling Mike and Nick to follow him as he starts heading toward the stairs. It's clear that he's willing to leave the terrorist alone in the basement for a few more hours.

"No, no! I'll talk!" The terrorist yells, his voice filled with desperation, the thought of enduring more time in the dark, with only the sounds of insects and dripping water, finally breaking him.

"That's more like it." Neil responds coolly.

"But first, take this water piece of shit out of me!!" The terrorist demands, his voice shaking with frustration.

"As soon as you tell us everything, we'll take it out." Neil replies, unwavering.

The terrorist has no choice but to grit his teeth, his resolve cracking as he continues to endure the suffocating discomfort, knowing that his only hope for relief lies in giving them the information they want.

"Okay, so..." The terrorist hesitates for a moment, then finally speaks up, "Our headquarters is the Empire State. A few weeks ago, we got men to rebuild the entire building and place a machine on top. I don’t know how it works, nor how to deactivate it."

"Why the Empire State?" Neil presses.

"I have no idea. But the leader said we got help from inside the US government, and the Empire State is the only place that agreed to help us."

"WHAT?!" Neil exclaims. "You mean there’s a traitor? Right inside the US government? Someone with that kind of authority, able to operate without being caught?"

"I don’t know, it’s just a rumor." The terrorist shrugs as Neil’s gaze hardens. "How many of you are there? And how did you all plan this operation?"

"There’s about a hundred of us. All volunteered, of course. About 30 are guarding the headquarters, while the rest are patrolling, holding hostages. The leaders planned everything, so I don’t know anything about the drones, or how the weapon was transported."

"Why hold hostages when you already have control of the whole city?" Neil asks with skepticism.

"The hostages represent the fate of everyone in this city." The terrorist explains. "The US government won’t do anything stupid if they know what we could do to their citizens."

"... Final question. What's the purpose of all this?"

"To ignite a war."

...

"What?!"

"I said, to ignite war!" The terrorist’s voice grows more intense. "A war between the US and the Soviets. Do you really think we would risk our lives just to kidnap people for no reason? We’re going to execute the US President, broadcast it to the world, and before we leave, we’ll cover the entire capitalistic New York City with Soviet flags. That’s more than enough to provoke the US government into declaring war on the Soviet Union and its allies!"

With fury in his eyes, Neil grabs the terrorist by the neck, pulling him close, their faces mere inches apart. "Do you even understand what war means? It means the death of millions of innocent people because of your nonsense!"

The terrorist smirks, unfazed. "Yeah, a lot of people will die, but that’s what the US deserves. For what they’ve done to the nations that don’t follow their orders. And there’s no way the Soviet Red Army would lose; they’ve been preparing for this the whole time."

Neil’s eyes narrow. "The Soviet government knew about this? Are they the ones behind all of this?"

"Of course! Where do you think we get our funding from?"

SLAM!

Neil’s anger erupts, and he throws the terrorist back onto the floor with a brutal force.

"So the whole goddamn 'Peace Treaty' that lets Russians live here was their plan all along! Fuck!!" Neil curses, his fists clenching in rage.

"Chad was right. We have to stop this at all costs!"