The White House felt less like the seat of a republic and more like the command bunker of a besieged general.
Hallways once bustling with aides now felt hollow, the air tense, the walls echoing with hurried steps and whispered arguments no longer meant for public ears.
Roosevelt stood behind the Resolute Desk, not seated, he couldn't sit, not tonight. His leg braces hissed as he shifted his weight, and the hand gripping his cane trembled in a way he couldn't fully hide.
The nation was on fire, and he knew who had lit the match.
But he had no proof. And proof was the only thing separating leadership from panic.
A nearby aide held a stack of documents, newspapers, typed witness statements, intercepted telegrams, military cables. None told the story Roosevelt needed. None even came close.
He'd asked for a miracle, and they had delivered paper.
"Sir," one advisor whispered, "shouldn't we… wait? Allow the investigation…"
Roosevelt slammed his cane once against the floor.
Hard.
