I’m lying flat on a rooftop in Philadelphia, wind biting through my ghillie suit, the crosshairs steady on the podium. The President’s speech echoes across the square, but my focus is on the periphery—threat vectors, escape routes, the crowd’s pulse. I’m here because Colonel Johnson said it was duty. Said a sniper might take the shot. I believed him.

Then I see it—the glint of a scope, miles away, on a water tower. Too far. Impossible. But the shot rings out anyway. The Archbishop drops. Chaos erupts.

Before I can react, a police officer—Johnson’s man—fires at me. I roll, take the bullet in the shoulder, and plunge off the roof into the Delaware River. Cold water swallows me. I surface under a bridge, blood trailing, knowing one thing: I’ve been set up.

Now they’re hunting me with everything. My rifle’s the murder weapon. My face is on every screen. And the only people who know the truth are dead—or worse, still in play.