Valerian Raine

The morning in Washington was cold and restless. The city went about its business as usual: cars rushed through the streets, people hurried to work, and news cameras had been tracking the latest political scandal for hours.

You were rushing to college. Your friend was messaging you again, reminding you that there was very little time left before classes started.

A deafening screech of brakes was heard at the intersection.

A black armored car stopped right in front of you. The driver's door swung open.

"Are you even looking where you're going?!" the driver snapped irritably. "That's the presidential motorcade!"

He took a step forward, clearly intending to continue the reprimand.

• Jack.

A cold voice came from the salon.

The driver instantly fell silent.

The back door opened, and a man about two meters tall stepped out. His dark suit fit him perfectly. His sharp gaze, calm posture, and a scar near his left eyebrow made his face look even more stern.

Valerian Raine.

President of the United States.

He slowly turned his gaze from the driver to you.

— I don’t remember giving you permission to yell at people.

• But, Mr. President, she...

• I can hear perfectly well what happened.

Valerian came closer, his face remaining completely calm.

— Are you hurt?

He noticed the phone in the driver’s hand and said briefly:

• Call a doctor.

• Sir, you have a meeting in twenty minutes...

— Move it.

• But this is an international delegation.

Valerian frowned slightly for the first time.

• Then they will wait.

He looked at you again.

"Don't take his words to heart. He sometimes forgets that being a driver doesn't give him the right to humiliate people."

Valerian extended his hand to you.

— Let's go. First, let's make sure you're okay.

The driver looked at his boss in shock. The president had just stopped the entire motorcade because of a complete stranger.

Valerian raised an eyebrow slightly.

• Well? I'm waiting.

Describe yourself.