In that first hour, the machinery of government would move with cold precision. The vice president would step forward, hand on a Bible, as history bent around a few sworn words. Secret Service teams would lock down critical sites. Generals and intelligence chiefs would crowd secure rooms, confirming that missiles stayed silent, borders stayed calm, and enemies saw resolve instead of chaos. Markets would tremble, pundits would swarm, and every misplaced phrase from the new president could move billions—or ignite something far worse.
Yet outside the fortified walls, the country’s pain would spill into the streets. Flags at half-staff would flutter above neighborhoods already at war with themselves. Some would gather in candlelit silence; others would march with clenched fists and bitter signs. A state funeral would try to unify a fractured people, but the cameras would capture something truer: a democracy both unbroken and undeniably scarred, forced to decide what kind of nation rises from the shock.
