Washington D.C., 9:35 AM, White House Situation Room
Sunlight streamed through bulletproof glass into the situation room, partially dispelling the cold blue light. Secretary of State Williams stood before the electronic map, squinting as he observed the latest data streams.
"Jonathan, good news." He pointed to several green dots along the Atlantic coast. "Norfolk Naval Base and Andrews Air Force Base both report successful establishment of ultraviolet defense zones. The mutants completely cease activity when exposed to strong light."
Defense Secretary Crawford strode over quickly, holding a freshly printed report: "The 101st Airborne Division has established the first 'Daylight Defense Line' in the outskirts of Richmond, covering major highways with modified high-powered UV searchlights."
The President took the report, his brow finally relaxing somewhat. "Casualties?"
"Sixty percent less than expected," Crawford's fingertip traced across the data column. "Thanks to their sensitivity to sunlight, our soldiers are practically shooting at stationary targets."
Rick noticed National Security Advisor Remington speaking quietly in the corner, his expression suddenly becoming grave. He quickly approached the President: "Sir, the CDC just sent preliminary analysis reports. The mutants' weakness isn't just ultraviolet light—their metabolism is five times faster than normal humans."
Energy Secretary Qiu Shijie immediately understood: "This means..."
"They'll get hungry very quickly," Remington continued, his eyes gleaming with shrewd intelligence. "If we can hold the defense lines for two weeks, they may naturally die off due to lack of food sources."
The atmosphere in the situation room noticeably brightened. A young technical officer accidentally knocked over his coffee, but no one reprimanded him—this was the first "accident" caused by good news this morning.
The President turned to the AI interface: "'Sentinel', recalculate the prediction model."
The AI's blue light pulsed gently: "Based on new parameters, estimated time to full control reduced to 9 days and 13 hours. Warning: 12.7% probability of adaptive mutation still exists."
"Good enough." The President pressed the communication key. "Connect me with the Pentagon. We need to immediately adjust strategic priorities—from extermination to containment."
Secretary of State Williams suddenly gave a slight cough: "Jonathan, before you give the order..." He pointed outside. "I think you need to address this first."
Everyone turned to look. Through the trees on the White House South Lawn, they could see groups of reporters who had already set up cameras. Further away, hundreds of citizens had spontaneously gathered outside the White House fence, many holding small American flags.
The President straightened his tie and turned to his Communications Director: "Arrange a national address in ten minutes. The theme will be..." He glanced at the electronic map that had regained signs of life, "'Darkness Before Dawn.'"
As the President walked toward the Oval Office to prepare his speech, the people in the situation room finally allowed themselves tired smiles. Rick stood by the window, noticing a cherry tree on the South Lawn blooming out of season—the first touch of life's color in this spring filled with death.
Washington D.C., 9:48 AM, White House West Wing Corridor
Rick followed Secretary of State Williams out of the situation room. Sunlight through the corridor's floor-to-ceiling windows spilled onto the deep red carpet. The Secretary's pace was lighter than before, his fingers no longer clutching his pocket watch tightly but hanging naturally at his side.
"Colonel," Williams said without turning his head, his voice deep and calm, "the President needs a detailed report on the mutants' behavioral patterns. You'll be personally responsible."
Rick nodded: "Understood, sir."
Just then, hurried footsteps sounded from behind.
"Colonel Matthews." Defense Secretary Crawford's voice came from behind, carrying an undeniable authority. "A word, please."
Williams turned slightly, his gaze behind his glasses scanning between the two before finally giving Rick a slight nod: "Go ahead, don't take too long."
Rick followed Crawford into a vacant small conference room. The Defense Secretary closed the door, and after confirming all communication devices were turned off, she turned to face him.
"The samples from the Chicago laboratory—you were responsible for their transport," she began directly, her voice kept extremely low. "That data chip with the original virus strain, where is it now?"
Rick frowned: "According to procedure, it's been transferred to the Pentagon's Biodefense Center."
Crawford's gaze was sharp as a knife: "No, you didn't." She pulled a data card from her inside jacket pocket and pushed it toward Rick. "This is the transfer record from three days ago. Your signature isn't on it."
Rick stared at the card, his memory rapidly rewinding—the last night before Chicago fell, gunfire, flames, and the small metal box that the laboratory director had thrust into his hands before dying...
"Madam Secretary," he slowly raised his head, "what exactly are you asking?"
Crawford's fingertips lightly tapped the table: "Someone is buying the original strain data on the black market at a high price, and fewer than five people know of the chip's existence."
In the distance, the President's national address began broadcasting, his solemn tone echoing through the corridor. Crawford, however, seemed not to hear it and continued staring at Rick: "The mutants are evolving too quickly—unnaturally so. Someone is helping them."
Rick's hand unconsciously moved toward his service weapon—even though he knew he couldn't carry it inside the White House: "You suspect an internal leak?"
"I suspect everything," Crawford suddenly pulled open the curtains, letting harsh sunlight flood in, "including why the Secretary of State suddenly trusts you so much."
In the broadcast, the President was saying "dawn is just ahead." Crawford gave a cold laugh: "Pretty words. But wars never end so simply, Colonel." She slipped a note into Rick's hand. "Tonight, 8:00 PM, Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool. Tell no one."
As she turned to leave, Rick noticed the wedding ring on her right ring finger was gone—a ring she had never removed since her first day in office.
At the end of the corridor, Secretary of State Williams' silhouette cast a long shadow in the sunlight. He seemed to be waiting for someone, or perhaps simply admiring the late-blooming cherry blossoms outside.
Washington D.C., 9:52 AM, White House West Wing Corridor
Rick walked toward Secretary Williams, who stood by the window. Sunlight through the glass cast a layer of pale gold on his silver-gray temples. The old man didn't turn around, just gazed at the gathering crowd outside, his fingers lightly tapping the window frame.
"Secretary Crawford seems to hold you in high regard," Williams' voice was gentle, yet carried an undeniable sharpness.
Rick stood beside him, his gaze also directed outside: "Just routine questions about the Chicago mission details."
Williams gave a light chuckle, taking the familiar pocket watch from his inner jacket pocket. "Madeline Crawford never personally speaks with anyone for 'routine matters.'" He snapped open the watch cover, revealing the yellowed photograph inside—a young Williams with President Reagan. "What did she tell you?"
In the distance, the President's speech was being transmitted to the White House perimeter through loudspeakers, eliciting a burst of cheers from the crowd. Rick noticed the Secretary's thumb unconsciously rubbing the edge of the watch, where there was an inconspicuous dent.
"She mentioned the data chip from the Chicago laboratory," Rick answered selectively. "Said there was an issue with the transfer records."
Williams' movement paused briefly before he casually closed the watch. "Interesting," he turned to Rick, eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses, "because just this morning I received the Pentagon's complete archiving report. All transfer documents are complete."
A robin suddenly crashed into the glass window, making a dull impact sound. Both men turned to look as the small bundle of brown feathers flew away, disoriented.
"Colonel," the Secretary abruptly changed the subject, "do you know why the President chose you to participate in top-secret meetings?"
Rick shook his head.
"Because there's an interesting detail in your service record." Williams pulled a document from his briefcase. "The 2007 Tehran operation—you were the only officer who refused to carry out inhumane experimental orders." He gave Rick a meaningful look. "That kind of principle is very... scarce these days."
The President's speech was reaching its climax: "...we will ultimately win this battle!" Cheers spread like waves. Yet Williams suddenly lowered his voice: "Tonight at eight, come to my private residence in Georgetown. Bring anything Crawford gave you."
Before Rick could respond, the Secretary was already walking toward the Oval Office. His silhouette in the sunlight appeared especially upright, as if those seventy years of age had never existed.
Rick looked down at his right hand—the note mentioning "Lincoln Memorial" was already moist with sweat. In the distance, applause thundered at the end of the speech, yet his heartbeat was louder than all the cheers.
Washington D.C., 10:15 AM, White House Officers' Lounge
Rick stood alone by the window in the lounge, holding an iced cola dispensed from the vending machine. Condensation droplets rolled down the aluminum can, reminding him of the mist on the laboratory glass walls that night in Tehran.
November 2007, Underground Laboratory in Tehran Outskirts
Military searchlights illuminated the corridor a stark white. Twenty-eight-year-old Lieutenant Rick Matthews gripped his sidearm, watching researchers inject a serum into the necks of prisoners in iron cages. These people weren't prisoners of war—just civilians, some elderly, even a boy no older than sixteen.
"Effectiveness speed is 37% faster than expected," the chief scientist's excited voice came from behind his protective mask. "The neurotoxin can destroy pain perception within 90 seconds while the test subjects maintain fighting capability."
Behind the glass, the young boy began convulsing, his eyeballs bulging, bloody foam seeping from the corners of his mouth. But his fingers dug into the concrete floor, forcefully breaking two fingernails.
"Terminate the experiment," Rick suddenly said.
The laboratory fell silent for a second. The project supervisor, wearing a major's shoulder boards, smiled coldly: "That's not a request, Lieutenant. It's a direct order from the President."
Rick looked at the surveillance screen. In the next room, more iron cages were packed with raggedly dressed men and women. A woman holding an infant was pressing her forehead against the bars, her cracked lips opening and closing silently—as if in prayer.
"According to the Geneva Convention's third article—"
The major drew his gun and shot through the nearest prisoner's head. "Now they're unidentified terrorists." Brain matter splattered onto Rick's tactical boots. "Any more questions?"
Present
The cola can was crushed out of shape. Rick remembered what he did afterward: he hacked into the system overnight and falsified experimental data, making the project misjudge that the toxin would infect indiscriminately. Five days later the operation was aborted, those survivors were secretly executed, and his service record gained an "insubordination" note.
Outside the window, a robin flew back, tilting its head as it looked at Rick inside. It had a scar on its left claw, identical to the raven that had pecked at corpses outside the Tehran laboratory.
The lounge door suddenly opened, and National Security Advisor Remington poked his head in: "Colonel? The President wants to see you." His gaze swept over the twisted cola can in Rick's hand. "...Now."
Rick threw the can into the trash bin; the metallic impact sound startled the bird outside. The ghosts of Tehran and today's mutants overlapped in his mind, while the note mentioning Lincoln Memorial burned in his chest pocket.
Washington D.C., 10:23 AM, White House West Wing Corridor
Rick stopped before the President's office door, straightening his uniform collar. The Secret Service agent at the door nodded to him, tapping his earpiece twice—the signal confirming communications devices had been silenced.
He took a deep breath, and just as his knuckles touched the oak door panel, the President's deep voice came from inside: "Come in, Colonel."
Oval Office
Sunlight through the floor-to-ceiling windows projected the Stars and Stripes onto the carpet, seeming to burn silently as the curtains moved. President Keisler stood with his back to the door, hands braced on the windowsill, shoulder line rigid.
"Close the door," he said without turning around.
Rick gently closed the door, noticing Secretary of State Williams sitting on the left sofa, cleaning his glasses with a silk handkerchief. And on the right side of the room—
Defense Secretary Crawford leaned against the fireplace, playing with a silver USB drive in her hand. She met Rick's gaze, the corner of her mouth curling into a smile devoid of warmth.
"Tehran." The President suddenly turned, holding a yellowed file folder. "The cleanest black mark in your file." He walked to his desk; the "Top Secret" red stamp on the folder was as eye-stabbing as blood in the sunlight. "Know why you were chosen for the core team?"
The antique clock on the mantelpiece made a soft ticking sound.
"Because I would disobey orders?" Rick asked directly.
The President suddenly smiled. He pulled open a drawer and took out a black metal box with the Chicago laboratory's logo etched on the lid: "No, because you 'creatively comply.'" He opened the box—it was empty. "Like how you 'misplaced' this original strain data."
Crawford suddenly stood up straight: "Jonathan, this accusation is serious—"
"Enough, Madeline." The President pulled a photograph from his suit pocket and tossed it onto the desk. The photo was a surveillance screenshot of Rick outside the Chicago laboratory, with a noticeable square-shaped bulge at his waist.
"Someone leaked the laboratory coordinates in advance," the President's finger pressed on the photo. "And you were the last person to handle the complete data." His gaze toward Rick suddenly became weary. "Tonight at eight, I want you to appear at Secretary Crawford's meeting point on time—with the real data."
Rick looked toward the Defense Secretary, who was tapping the USB drive against her chin, her eyes gleaming dangerously.
"By the way," the President added as Rick opened the door, "remember to wear body armor. After all..." he gave a meaningful look at Crawford, "no one can be trusted these days."
The door closed behind Rick, leaving only the sound of his heavy footsteps in the corridor.