112: Chapter 112 Persuasion to Resign Rejected, Political Enemies Stand Firm

The lawyer followed Prant's pace, whispering to confirm the post-bail schedule.

The bodyguards had already pushed open the fire door at the end of the detention center's side corridor.

Prant was about to step across the threshold into the crisp, cold air of the early morning, but then his footsteps halted.

Outside the door, no fewer than six black armored SUVs were parked, their sides emblazoned with the White House Secret Service logo.

Two rows of Secret Service tactical team members had already formed a standard CQB formation, all gun barrels pointed safely downward, but every eye was locked onto him.

The lawyer instinctively stepped forward: "My client has completed all legal bail procedures; this is the bail order signed by a federal judge..."

Before he could finish, a Secret Service squad leader pressed him against the wall with one hand, sending the bail order documents scattering across the corridor floor.

Prant's security personnel were controlled one by one by the Secret Service agents. No one dared to make a move.

Confronting the White House Secret Service was equivalent to directly confronting the core of federal executive power; the consequences for anyone present daring to draw a weapon in this situation would be irreversible.

Prant did not struggle; he simply lowered his cuffs and buttoned them, his gaze passing over the backs of the black-suited agents blocking the corridor and landing on the back seat of a Cadillac as the window slowly rolled down.

Biden sat there, his profile illuminated by an old sodium lamp on the outer wall of the detention center; the dim, yellowish light etched the wrinkles and bags under his eyes even deeper.

He did not enter the detention center's gate, but merely glanced at Prant through the small car window, his lips moving to utter a few words that Prant, separated by the iron gate, could not hear clearly.

But a Secret Service agent beside him immediately walked up to Prant and concisely conveyed the President's words: "The President says: Let's go inside and talk."

Prant watched the Cadillac's rear window slowly roll back up, watching Biden's old face disappear behind the bulletproof glass again, and remained silent for a few seconds. Then, he began to walk.

There was no resistance, no protest, no unnecessary words; he simply followed the guidance of the Secret Service team in front and walked back into the detention center.

Deep in the corridor, in an interrogation room that had been urgently cleared and rearranged, the Secret Service's electronic countermeasures team was using spectrum scanners and non-linear junction detectors to check every inch of the walls, table legs, vents, and lighting fixtures for residual electronic signals.

The lead Secret Service technical team leader stood before Biden and reported in a low voice: "The room has been fully swept; there are no hidden listening devices or recording equipment. You may speak freely, Mr. President."

Biden nodded slightly and gestured with his hand. The Secret Service personnel exited the room in an orderly fashion like a receding tide, and the door closed softly behind them.

Only Biden and Prant remained in the interrogation room. A stainless steel table, two chairs, and an explosion-proof light embedded in the ceiling flooded the entire room with a cold, bluish-white light.

Biden sat on the chair near the window, his hands folded on the table. He did not speak first, but simply used those gray-blue eyes to quietly scrutinize Prant across the table.

Prant was in no rush to speak either. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, meeting Biden's scrutiny with a posture he had long been accustomed to using to seize the initiative in any situation, a faint curve between provocation and mockery hanging at the corner of his mouth.

The two men weighed each other up in silence for about half a minute. Finally, Biden spoke first.

His voice was not loud, his tone flat, as if he were having a final conversation to confirm facts with an old acquaintance whom he had worked with for many years but who would never order food at the same table.

"A million-strong alien fleet from Zeta Star will soon attack Earth." "These are extraordinary times." "In extraordinary times, one must take extraordinary measures."

The curve at the corner of Prant's mouth did not fade, his arms remained crossed over his chest, and his voice carried unadorned spikes: "Extraordinary measures, so you use armored vehicles to drag me and my supporters in here?" "Is this what you call extraordinary measures?"

"The conventional presidential campaigns of the past are no longer applicable to this moment." Biden slightly relaxed the fingers pressed against the table. "Those previous rules of political maneuvering were formulated under the premise of no external threats."

"But now an alien fleet is about to attack Earth, and the entire human civilization is facing an existential crisis." "In such extraordinary times, we must use some extraordinary means; otherwise, all of humanity will be destroyed because of it. It's not a question of who wins or loses between you and me."

Prant leaned back into his chair, narrowing his eyes as he looked at the old man across the table who seemed to have changed into a different person overnight, his gaze sharp, without speaking.

"For the next presidential election... you should voluntarily withdraw." Biden's tone did not carry any hint of a request, as if he were stating a formula that had already been derived. "As long as you withdraw, no one can beat me in a one-on-one contest."

"Only then can I focus all my energy on carrying out policies to resist the alien fleet." "This is not for my personal gain." "This concerns whether all of humanity will be destroyed."

"The political situation in the Lighthouse Country must remain stable." "If you and I are locked in an intense fight because of the presidential election, it will only deplete the Lighthouse Country's national strength for nothing." "For every bit of national strength consumed, our chances of resisting the alien fleet's attack will decrease by that much."

He paused slightly, slowly clasping his hands together on the table, fingers interlaced, and looked up directly at Prant, as if he had already chosen the answer for the other party. "You need to think about the big picture." "Voluntarily giving up the election is for the survival of all humanity."

Prant was silent for a few seconds. Then he suddenly laughed. The laugh was very shallow, very short, as if he were giving a light response out of politeness after hearing a joke that wasn't funny.

He uncrossed his arms from his chest, placed his hands on the table, and leaned forward slightly, his tone as relaxed as if he were talking about a trivial matter, but there was no room for concession between the lines.

"Where is this big picture you speak of?" "I don't see myself in your big picture." "If I become president, I will definitely do better than you in resisting the alien fleet's attack." "Because, no one understands Aliens better than me!"

Biden was silent for a while, looking at Prant. In his gray-blue eyes, there was no anger, no disappointment, only a cold confirmation verified too many times by time—a confirmation that the other party would not accept any conditions, and also a confirmation that this negotiation had no other outcome from the very first second.

He stood up, pushed his chair back, walked to the door, and gripped the doorknob. Then he turned his head to look at Prant, who was still sitting in his original position. His voice was not loud, but every word fell cleanly and sharply right in the center of the cold, hard light on the stainless steel table.

"Prant, in the near future, you will regret the choice you made today." "Remember, I am the President."

The door opened, the door closed. With a "bang," Prant was left alone with the explosion-proof light embedded in the ceiling.