Silence was the loudest thing in London that night.
Here, inside 10 Downing Street, in the office that had been a silent witness to the rise and fall of an empire, I sat alone. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of old, varnished wood, worn leather, and the ghosts of my predecessors' ambitions. Outside the window, the streetlights of London glittered through a September drizzle, casting a hazy glow on the wet asphalt.
This was real. Not some fever dream. I, Morgan Einstein, was the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.
I closed my eyes, letting the absurd reality sink in. Just hours ago, I was a lost soul, a man of Asian descent from another world. Now, I occupied this body, in this seat of power, with a dying nation in my hands. I could feel its faint pulse through the vibrations of the floorboards beneath my feet.
This country is sick, I thought, a cold, clinical diagnosis.
I rose from the plush leather chair and walked to the window. The view of Whitehall at night should have been magnificent. It should have been inspiring. But all I saw was decay wrapped in a beautiful facade. I saw the cars speeding by, carrying citizens who feared for tomorrow. I imagined the streets just a few miles away, where immigrant gangs from Pakistan and Somalia were turning districts into no-go zones after sunset. I imagined the schools where British identity was being dismantled, replaced by a confusing mix of liberal ideology and the uncompromising demands of foreign cultures.
Anger, cold and sharp, pierced my chest. This was no longer the Britain that shook the world. This was a hollow shell, a museum run by people who hated its original curators.
A translucent, faint blue interface flickered at the edge of my vision.
System active. Mr. Prime Minister, would you like to check your status?
"Yes," I whispered, my voice hoarse in the quiet room.
Name: Morgan Einstein
Title: Prime Minister of the United Kingdom
Active Mission: Restore National Sovereignty
Active Ability: Churchillian Orator (Permanent)
New Task Available: Set the Agenda
This isn't a game, I told myself. This is a war.
"System," I said again. "Accept new task."
Task Accepted:Set the Agenda
Description: Within the next 24 hours, convey your first three core policies to your Cabinet or inner circle. Show them that a new era has begun.
Reward: +5% Charisma for the next public address.
A small, subtle reward. I liked that. The system was a tool, not a magic wand. A scalpel, not a sledgehammer. The planning, the vision, and the courage—all of that had to come from me.
I returned to my desk, pressing the intercom. "Rottington, please get me Sir James Sterling. Ask him to come to my office now. Immediately."
"Right away, Mr. Prime Minister," my assistant's efficient voice replied.
Sir James Sterling. My Home Secretary. An old-guard Tory, a bulldog type whose face looked as if it were carved from the cliffs of Dover. His eyes had seen decades of political trench warfare, and he was one of the few men in the party I trusted to have a spine made of real English steel, not liberal jelly.
Fifteen minutes later, he entered. A stocky man in an impeccable Savile Row suit. He gave me a respectful nod. "Prime Minister."
"James," I said, gesturing for him to take the seat across from my desk. "Thank you for coming in so late."
"The country never sleeps," he replied curtly, his eyes sharp and alert. He knew this wasn't a casual chat.
I leaned forward, clasping my hands on the desk. "I won't waste your time with pleasantries, James. This afternoon's press conference was just the overture. Now, the real work begins."
He nodded, waiting.
"Britain is dying," I stated flatly. "We're being flooded by immigrants who have no intention of integrating. Many of them are criminals we invited in through the front door. Our economy is being suffocated by the benefits we hand out to people who despise us. Our national identity is being erased in our schools under the banner of multiculturalism, which is really just another name for unconditional surrender."
Sterling's face remained impassive, but I saw a flicker of agreement in his eyes.
"I'm going to stop the bleeding. Tonight. My first policies will be the most important." I paused, meeting his gaze directly. "I am creating a new department, one that will fall directly under your control, but with unprecedented power. We will call it the Department of Immigration and National Security."
Sterling raised an eyebrow. "Its function?"
"Mass deportations," I answered without hesitation. "First, all illegal immigrants. No exceptions, no drawn-out appeals. They will be rounded up and sent home within weeks, not years. Second, this department will be empowered to review the status of any legal immigrant who has committed any crime, no matter how minor. A criminal record means a one-way ticket out of this country."
Sterling's face paled. "Morgan… this… this will set off a firestorm. The opposition, the courts, the EU… even the Americans…"
"Let them burn," I cut in coldly. "Which brings me to my second point. I want you to draft emergency legislation to revoke any law that grants what I call 'special privileges' to immigrants. No more special benefits, no more prioritized social housing, no more free legal aid to fight deportation. They are guests in this country, James. And guests who misbehave must be shown the door."
For the first time, I saw genuine shock on Sterling's face. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He knew I was serious.
"And third," I continued, giving him no time to recover. "This is about the soul of our nation. I want a bill that will be 'Section 28' on steroids. Radical Islamic influence and LGBT propaganda will be banned from every state school. We will teach British history, British literature, and British values. We will restore pride, not apology."
A heavy silence filled the room. The only sound was the ticking of the old clock on the mantelpiece. Sterling stared at me, his eyes searching, trying to gauge if I was a madman or a genius.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low and gravelly. "This is a declaration of war. Not just on the opposition, but on the entire post-war liberal order."
"Exactly," I said. "And I need a general to lead the first charge. Are you with me, James?"
He looked at me for a long moment. I could see the battle inside him—the ingrained political caution warring with a long-dormant spark of nationalism. Then, slowly, a thin, cold smile touched his lips.
"Prime Minister," he said, rising to his feet. "I've been waiting a long time for this order. Give me that department, and I'll clean house for you."
A cold sense of relief washed over me. I had found my first ally.
Just then, the television in the corner of the room, which had been on mute, suddenly caught our attention. Rottington must have turned it on. A news broadcast was showing the first images of protests erupting outside Downing Street after my press conference. Hundreds of people, then thousands, their faces contorted with rage. Banners reading "Einstein the Fascist" and "No Racist Tories" were held aloft.
Then, the camera cut to the leader of the Labour Party, Kaelan Richards, standing on the steps of Parliament, his face red with fury. The news ticker below him read: "OPPOSITION LEADER CONDEMNS PRIME MINISTER'S SPEECH AS 'DARKEST DAY IN MODERN BRITISH HISTORY'."
I turned up the volume.
"...This is no longer politics!" Richards shouted into a microphone, his voice trembling with emotion. "This is poison! Morgan Einstein, on his first day in office, has declared war on millions of British citizens. He has targeted minorities, blamed immigrants for his own party's failures, and threatened to dismantle the very foundations of our tolerant, open society! This is creeping fascism, and we will fight it in the streets, in Parliament, and in the courts!"
Sterling snorted in disgust. "Hysterical fool."
I muted the sound again, staring at the angry mob on the screen. They didn't understand. They saw a tyrant. They didn't see the doctor holding the scalpel, preparing to cut the cancer that was rotting their nation to the bone.
"Let them scream, James," I said quietly, my eyes still fixed on the screen. "Their noise is a sign that we're doing something right."
I turned away from the television, feeling a fierce sliver of hope burn inside me. This was the beginning. A painful, tumultuous, and bloody beginning. But it was the beginning of a rebirth.
"Get to work," I ordered Sterling. "I want the first drafts of all three proposals on my desk by morning."
He nodded, a new fire in his eyes. "Yes, Prime Minister."
As he left, I returned to the window, staring out into the London night. I felt no doubt. I felt no fear. All I felt was a profound sadness for what this country had lost.
And I, Morgan Einstein, vowed to make Britain great again.