The air in the United Nations Secretary-General's private office was thick with the scent of old books, polished wood, and the sharp, clean smell of desperation. It was a room designed for quiet diplomacy, for the measured resolution of the world's conflicts. Today, it felt like the antechamber to the apocalypse.
Aria Montenegro stood before the mahogany desk, her posture straight, the mantle of the Moon Goddess resting on her shoulders not as a crown of power, but as a weight of immense responsibility. Across from her sat Secretary-General William Clarke, a man whose once-youthful vigor had been eroded by the relentless crises of the past weeks. Flanking him were the permanent representatives of the five Security Council nations, their faces projected as life-sized holograms, their expressions a mixture of skepticism, fear, and exhaustion.
