George stared at the hologram—planet X-12's orbit still wobbling gently in midair.
His fingers had stopped tapping.
Too late now.
The chamber was silent, utterly silent, and the silence had his name all over it.
'Why the hell did I do that?'
His pulse thudded in his throat. He sat perfectly still, but his mind was already running laps.
It had been a stupid, impulsive thing. Just a rhythm—tap… tap-tap—a pattern he'd used before to calm patients mid-spiral. It was harmless. Subtle. Automatic.
But this wasn't a patient.
This was an entire war chamber of political leaders, military brass, and terrified scientists.
And now they were calm.
Because of him.
Because he'd projected the [Serene Beat] across the room like it was a white-noise machine and they were just another outpatient group therapy session.
'God. I wasn't even trying to help. I just wanted them to stop yelling'
A flush crept into his chest—not pride, not shame, something worse: recognition. He had just used one of his techniques on an entire room without consent, without thinking, without intent beyond irritation
And took attention on himself as he is not even original george
He swallowed hard.
'Am I losing it? Or is this what losing it or did I think myself as original george helel'
Then Albus spoke.
Calm. Precise. Inevitable.
"Then let me properly introduce the man who is also one of the most important personal for our mission "
George's eyes widened.
'No, no, no—Albus, don't you dare—'
"This," Albus said, turning to the room, "is Dr. George Helel."
Dozens of eyes locked onto him.
George gave them a flat, reluctant smile that didn't even reach his cheekbones.
"Top clinical psychologist in the country," Albus continued, "and an unparalleled expert in treating individuals affected by high-grade anomalous events—particularly those of paranormal or metaphysical origin."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. The Prime Minister sat forward, brows knitting. One of the generals leaned to whisper something, stopped halfway, and just kept staring.
Albus wasn't finished.
"For over a decade, Dr. Helel has specialized in post-exposure reconstruction therapy for cognitive damage inflicted by reality-warping encounters. His work spans cases ranging from low-level possession trauma to Category Five psychic fragmentation."
George rubbed his temple.
'That's one way to say 'I help people un-see the things that shouldn't exist.and what the hell is reality warping'
"He's consulted on classified events none of you want to read about and brought people back who should've been written off as permanently fractured."
Albus turned, finally meeting George's eyes. "And unlike most of us—he have ample experience in supernatural forces"
George exhaled through his nose.
He sat in his chair, forcing himself to breathe. To center. To not spiral, because if anyone in this room needed to stay anchored, it was him.
Still, his mind itched.
'So original george is a bigshot,why did I even use the serene beat?'
Because they wouldn't stop. Wouldn't listen. Wouldn't work together even in the face of extinction.
'They're the ones in charge, and they're flailing like fish in an airlock.'
That was the real reason. Not logic. Not strategy. Just raw frustration.
He looked around the room.
They were watching him now with a kind of quiet awe. Not respect. Not yet. Just… curiosity. Wariness
George melted back into his seat, shoulders easing into the shadows at the edge of the room.
Let the spotlight pass.
He'd already overstepped. Pacified the room like they were trauma patients. Been introduced like a walking anomaly case file with a PhD. He'd had enough of the stares—curious, reverent.
Let someone else speak now.
The silence broke.
A tall, wiry man stood from the far end of the conference table. Faded leather jacket over his shoulders, a scar trailing down from his temple into his beard. His name was Roth Malik, the head of Revolutionary group—one of the more ideologically volatile revolutionary cells. That he'd been invited at all was a miracle. That he was speaking calmly was nothing short of divine intervention.
He nodded once to the room.
"Alright. I'll say it first."
His voice was rough but grounded.
"I've spent years fighting what this place represents. Suits. Secrecy. Calculated detachment while cities burn."
He gestured vaguely at the military brass, the bureaucrats, the Prime Minister himself.
"We thought we were on opposite ends of the apocalypse."
A pause. Then, almost too softly:
> "Turns out, the real apocalypse doesn't care about our lines."
The room held still.
"So yeah," Roth said. "I'm sorry. For the yelling. The accusations. For treating this like politics when it's clearly survival."
He exhaled sharply through his nose. Sat down.
The room, for the first time, breathed as one.
A few scientists exchanged nods. One of the tactical advisors said quietly, "Understood." No one scoffed. No one rolled their eyes. Even the General who had looked ready to deck someone earlier now just stared at the dead center of the table.
Then the Prime Minister stood.
Measured. Steady. Hands clasped behind his back.
"This coalition," he said, his voice carrying across the now-stilled chamber, "is no longer an informal gathering of fractured interests."
He looked around the table. At generals, at rogue leaders, at scientists, at George.
"As of now, we stand under a single designation: THE NEXUS ACCORD."
Murmurs rose—brief, restrained—but no one objected.
"Whatever personal histories we carry, whatever distrust lingers, it ends at this table."
He stepped forward.
"The nature of the threat we face demands it. And I remind you: what was discussed here remains classified under Directive Echo-Black. That includes Dr. Reif's analysis, and any anomalous behavioral shifts witnessed."
His voice hardened.
"You speak of this to no one, unless cleared through me or Dr. Reif or it will start up a panic that we can't offset ."
A pause.
"This meeting is adjourned."
Chairs scraped back.
George didn't wait to linger.
He slipped from the room quietly, his coat fluttering behind him. The silence of the corridor was a relief. Cold, sterile, real.
Down the polished hall, the marble gleamed under dimmed overheads. A figure in a charcoal overcoat was already waiting near the exit.
Victor Albrecht—George's driver, handler, and occasional fixer. Unflappable. A man built like he could bench-press a motorcycle, but with the restraint of a priest.
Victor raised an eyebrow wordlessly.
George didn't stop walking.
"Start the car," he said, voice low.
Victor nodded once and peeled off ahead.
They moved quickly through the service tunnel and into the private underground garage. The armored black sedan already had its headlights glowing like eyes in the dark.
Doors unlocked with a quiet click.
George slid into the backseat, breathing in the leather and quiet.
Victor started the engine, hands smooth on the wheel.
"Destination?"
George stared out the window as the security gate peeled open.
"Home"
City of glass towers, frozen rain, and things that should not dream stood as black and white only in georges eye's
As the car pulled into the night, George leaned back, eyes half-lidded.
He know he has to do something now
---