Inside the President's Mansion, somewhat distanced from Lynch and his group in Morton Special District, the President sat awkwardly at the edge of the conference table.
He tugged off his tie, tore open his collar, leaving it wide open to reveal some chest hair hidden beneath.
His left arm was pressed against the table, sleeve rolled high, his whole head rested on the dense arm hair of his forearm, tilted, brows knitted in worry, the cigarette in his other hand nearly burned out, with a long ash dangling.
He had maintained this posture for quite a while, feeling his mind had turned into a mush, losing the ability to think.
Beside the conference table sat some people, including his staff officers and members of the Cabinet.
Suddenly, as if almost asleep, the President shuddered violently, glancing at his right hand and at the cigarette butt slowly rolling off from the table, shooting out sparks—it had burned his hand.
