The dawn of September 28th broke over a wounded London. A pale gray light crept over the rooftops, revealing the aftermath of a battle. In Tower Hamlets, the streets were littered with shattered glass, burned-out makeshift barricades, and the lingering residue of the previous night's fury. The smell of smoke and melted plastic still hung in the damp air.
From my subterranean fortress in COBR, I had watched it all unfold. The operation, in military terms, was a success. Of the 212 priority targets, 198 were apprehended and were now in custody at a newly established processing center on a decommissioned airbase. The first deportation flights were scheduled for less than 48 hours. The sword-stroke had been clean and deep.
The body politic, however, unlike a human body, screams when it is cut. And the screaming was just beginning.
By the time I returned to 10 Downing Street, exhausted but resolute, the media storm had reached Category 5 intensity. Every news channel was broadcasting the same images on a loop: splintered doors, women crying hysterically, children staring with wide, frightened eyes as their fathers or older brothers were dragged away by heavily armed police. The reporters, with solemn faces and trembling voices, were calling it "London's Night of Broken Glass." They were comparing me to every 20th-century tyrant they could name.
Kaelan Richards held an emergency press conference outside Parliament, surrounded by human rights activists and immigrant community leaders.
"This is no longer policy, this is brutality!" he roared, his face crimson with rage. "Morgan Einstein has unleashed the dogs of war on his own citizens! He has torn up the rule of law and replaced it with the law of the jungle! We call for a general strike! We call for civil disobedience! We will not rest until this tyrannical government falls!"
I watched him on the television in my office while eating a late breakfast. I felt nothing. His words were just noise, the predictable echoes of a dying order.
The System gave me an update.
Task Completed: Neutralize Judicial Resistance.
Reward Received: Level 1 Intelligence File on Judge Marcus Atwood (Stored).
Public Sentiment Analysis (last 24 hours): Core Support (Conservative/Nationalist Base): +22% (Elation, seeing decisive action)
- Hard Opposition (Liberal/Left/Minority): -45% (Rage, fear, radicalization)
- Floating Mass (Centrist/Apathetic): -15% (Shock, anxiety, uncertainty)
The System continued with its cold analysis: Polarization has increased sharply. Support from your base is solidifying, but you are losing the center. Risk of widespread civil unrest: High.
I already knew that. A nation cannot be cured without a fever.
…
The first significant phone call came from across the Atlantic. It was President Biden. I took it in the Situation Room, with Eleanor Vance and Simon Blackwood listening in on a muted line.
Biden's voice was old and tired, but there was a steel edge beneath it.
"Morgan," he said, dispensing with pleasantries. "What in God's name are you doing? The images coming out of London… this is a disaster. It undermines everything we stand for."
"Good morning, Mr. President," I replied evenly. "What I am doing is enforcing my country's laws and securing my borders. A concept I'm sure you're not entirely unfamiliar with."
I could hear his sharp intake of breath on the other end. "This isn't about law enforcement, and you know it. This is about targeting specific communities. It sends a terrible message to the world, to our allies. It weakens our united front against autocracy."
"Unity?" I shot back, a hint of a sneer creeping into my voice. "What sort of unity demands that my country must accept criminals from across the globe while our enemies laugh at our weakness? True unity, Mr. President, begins at home. A nation that cannot control who comes and goes through its own front door is not a sovereign state, it's merely a geographical area."
There was a long pause. "Look, Morgan," he said, his voice softening, trying a different approach. "We need a stable Britain. A strong Britain. What you're doing… it's incendiary. It could spark a civil war. For God's sake, reconsider this."
"I have considered it," I replied coldly. "And my conclusion is that chemotherapy is unpleasant, but it's preferable to letting the cancer spread. I appreciate your concern, Mr. President."
I hung up before he could respond.
Eleanor Vance looked as if she were about to faint. "Prime Minister, you just hung up on the President of the United States!"
"Yes, Eleanor," I said, turning to face her. "And he just tried to dictate the domestic policy of the United Kingdom. I will never allow that to happen. Your job now is to contact every single Western embassy and deliver the same message: this is an internal matter. Any attempt to interfere, either through sanctions or public condemnation, will be considered a hostile act."
I looked at Blackwood. "Simon, I want full surveillance on all opposition leaders and protest organizers. I want to know who they're talking to, where their money is coming from, and what their next move is. I will not have an insurrection break out in my own backyard."
They both nodded, the shock on their faces being replaced by a grim understanding of the new reality. The rules of the game had changed.
…
Later that afternoon, I did something unexpected. I left the security of Downing Street and, with a minimal escort, went to an old pub in Lambeth—a traditional, working-class pub that had somehow survived the tide of gentrification and demographic change.
Word of my arrival spread quickly. Within minutes, the place was packed with locals—plumbers, cab drivers, pensioners. The people the media called "the forgotten England."
I stood in the middle of them, no podium, no script. Just a pint of bitter in my hand.
"They called me a monster on the television this morning," I said, my voice echoing in the oak-paneled room.
"They said I've stained the name of Britain."
A large, calloused man at the front shouted, "You're doing what needs to be done, PM!"
I smiled at him. "Thank you. Because you get it. You who live here. You who have seen your neighborhoods change beyond recognition. You who feel like foreigners in your own country. You know the truth."
I raised my glass. "Last night wasn't an end. It was a beginning. The beginning of taking back our streets. The beginning of taking back our borders. And the beginning of taking back our country."
"For years," I continued, my voice growing stronger, "the politicians in Westminster have told you that you were wrong to worry about immigration. They called you racists. They ignored you. I'm here to tell you: You were not wrong. You were right. And from now on, you have a Prime Minister who is listening."
A roar of approval shook the pub. It wasn't the polite cheer of a political rally. It was a long-suppressed roar of relief and vindication. It was the sound of a nation beginning to find its voice again.
As I left the pub, surrounded by handshakes and pats on the back, I knew that this battle would not be won in newsrooms or courtrooms. It would be won in pubs like this, on streets like this, in the hearts of people like these.
The storm was coming. I could feel it in the air. Kaelan Richards and his allies would unleash hell. But tonight, I knew I was not alone. I had an army at my back. The real, silent England had woken up. And it was hungry for a victory.