In the distant city S. inside the shin residence.
Shinju pranced around anxiously.
The overhead fan buzzed. The digital clock on the wall ticked closer to the final hours. Shinju's fingers trembled as he gripped the edge of the desk. The call he'd just ended echoed in his ears.
"They've confirmed the strike," he whispered to himself, his voice hollow.
He had pleaded with them. Called every contact in every military sector. Begged them to wait—just a few more hours. His father was still in there. His son.
"They said it's about the GDP," he muttered, the bitter taste of disgust rising in his throat. "About the country's image…"
