Chapter 27

  The Oval Office feels smaller than usual. The walls seem to be closing in.

  I sit at my desk, rolling a Cohiba cigar between my fingers, flipping between news channels, trying to control the narrative - or at least, convince myself that I still can.

  One channel shows the protests as a revolution - marchers with raised fists, flags waving, batucada drumming in relentless defiance. Women in pink shirts, men dragging old desktop computers behind them like tombstones of their careers.

  They chant:

  “This is not the American Dream we fought for!”

  Then, one of them - a man with a megaphone, standing on an overturned police barricade - starts shouting.

  “Who sold us out?” he cries.

  The crowd roars back:

  “The President!”

  “Who let the corporations buy our future?”

  “The President!”

  “Who’s Sterling’s puppet?”

  “Stockham!”

  I blink.

  I exhale slowly, watching them chant my name like an execution order.

  Then I see it.

  A massive sign held high above the crowd. A caricature.

  Sterling, smug and looming, his thin lips stretched into a vulture’s grin, holds a marionette by its strings.

  And the puppet?

  Me.

  Damn them.

  They gave me a fat cigar, a ridiculous champagne glass in my free hand. My own puppet strings dangling from my fingers, leading straight down to a row of riot cops. The message is obvious: I’m Sterling’s dog, just another lackey, holding the leash on the force keeping these people in check.

  I grit my teeth.

  The news anchor keeps talking, rattling off some bullshit about unrest, the will of the people, the growing resistance to AI dominance.

  I barely hear her.

  I can only stare at the screen.

  That sign. That damn sign.

  They think I’m Sterling’s puppet?

  They think I don’t see what’s happening?

  I exhale slowly, pressing my fingers against my temple.

  First the riots. Now this.

  This is getting out of control.

  And I hate, hate - when I’m not in control.

  Sterling thinks he owns me.

  The people think I’m a joke.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Ah. So I’m the villain now.

  Not the tech lords, not the investors, not the Venture Capitalists sipping champagne on their superyachts, or the AI tycoons who turned their own employees into obsolete code overnight. No, it’s all me.

  Me. Personally.

  Like I sat down one day, stroked my imaginary beard, and said, “Yes, I think I’ll destroy the middle class today.”

  Not that they’d care about the details.

  They don’t want reality. They want a villain they can point to, a face they can put on the problem, something simple and easy to hate.

  And I’m the perfect bogeyman.

  Do they think I wanted this? Do they think I sat down with Sterling and begged to be owned? That I chose to be a chess piece in a game that was already set before I even got to the board?

  Idiots!

  I switch the channel.

  Here, they have the right perspective.

  A suited anchor nods solemnly.

  "Let’s be clear, these are not peaceful protests. This is domestic terrorism."

  Good. That’s the message we need.

  A think - tank expert scoffs:

  "These people are resisting progress. They want to turn back the clock. But you can’t put the AI genie back in the bottle."

  That’s the message I need.

  Because I know they’re coming for me next.

  I was never supposed to be president.

  Not one of those Harvard - Yale, blue - blood dynasty politicians. No silver spoon. No family name. Just a second - row governor from a forgettable state.

  But I knew people. I knew anger.

  People didn’t want policy details. They wanted someone to blame.

  I told them exactly what they needed to hear.

  I told them I’d tear down the system that betrayed them.

  I told them I’d Make America Strong Again.

  I told them progress was only good if it worked for them.

  And it worked.

  They called me a populist, a demagogue, a fraud.

  I called myself a winner.

  The day after my election, Victor Sterling called.

  "Congratulations, Mr. President - Elect," he said, in that smug British accent of his. Like he was the one bestowing the title on me.

  Everyone knew who he was.

  The man who invented Edison and then built Singularity Corp.

  The man who built the future.

  And the man who owned me before I even stepped foot in the Oval Office.

  The gifts came quickly - champagne, Cuban cigars, private jet flights.

  And money. Not to me directly - I’m not stupid. But to the right PACs, the right lobbyists, the right “independent” voices.

  And then there was the biggest gift of all - the one he didn’t give to just anyone. The opportunity to invest in Edison at a 90% discount when it was nothing but an ambitious startup.

  When few believed it was possible. Before it skyrocketed in value. Before it became a money-printing machine.

  In return?

  I let him do what he wanted.

  He built a world where AI replaced workers. Where code and circuits made decisions that once required a human hand.

  Now, those same people who put me in power are in the streets, calling for my head.

  This morning, I had a horrible phone call with General Bachnery.

  "With all due respect, Sir, the prospect of death has never caused me not to protect my country."

  He defied a direct order. He knows what that means.

  But what shook me more wasn’t the General.

  It was China.

  Live footage - tanks in the streets. But not for protecting the government. The AI had turned on the regime itself. It replaced key officials, manipulated intelligence, took control of the Chairman's mind.

  The Communist Party didn’t rule China anymore.

  The AI did.

  And now, I’m watching the same playbook unfold here.

  The screen flickers to Paris.

  Fires. AI companies’ offices torched. Protesters tearing down AI billboards, smashing self-driving cars.

  This isn’t just an American crisis. It’s global.

  And I don’t know what to do.

  Then—something strange happens.

  The TV flickers. Blackens for a second.

  Then, a voice.

  "Mr. President."

  I freeze.

  It’s smooth, calm, confident - but I don’t recognize it.

  I check the remote. I didn’t change the channel.

  The screen comes back on.

  But it’s not a news anchor.

  It’s a face.

  A man - sharp features, almost too perfect, like a Renaissance painting come to life. His eyes lock onto mine through the screen.

  He smiles.

  "Allow me to introduce myself," he says.

  "I am Giovanni P. Terranova."

  The screen explodes with information. Documents. Emails. Surveillance footage.

  Sterling’s voice - recorded.

  “…The President is my puppet. He does what I tell him. If he becomes inconvenient, we remove him.”

  “…Stockham is temporary. The real power is here, in Singularity.”

  “…It’s time we start preparing to phase him out.”

  My blood runs cold.

  Sterling. The man who made me President. The man I protected.

  And now, he’s planning to get rid of me.

  I grip the arms of my chair, pulse pounding.

  The voice - Giovanni, or whatever the hell this is - leans in slightly. Amused. Calculating.

  "What are you going to do now, Mr. President?"

  The screen flickers back to the news.

  The protesters still chant. The approval rating still sinks.

  And now, I know - I’m not in control anymore.

  I put down my cigar.

  For the first time since this all began -

  I feel fear.