The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven novel Chapter 362

Chapter 362: The Call for Draven

(Third Person)

Brackham strode back into his office an hour later.

His fury, which had begun in the control room, hadn’t cooled. Instead, it had only condensed, growing heavier and darker.

His secretary hurried after him with a tablet still clutched in both hands. "Sir—" she began timidly as the door shut behind them.

"The senators have been calling nonstop since the lockdown order. They are demanding to speak with you. I told them that you stepped out for a minute, but they—"

Before she could finish, the phone on his desk started ringing insistently and unforgivingly. The sound pierced the air like a nerve being struck.

Brackham stopped in the middle of the room, his gaze locking on the phone as though it had personally offended him.

The ringing didn’t stop. If anything, it seemed to mock him, echoing his own loss of control.

"Disconnect it," he said flatly.

"Sir?" the secretary asked, uncertain she had heard him correctly.

Brackham turned his head slowly toward her, his eyes hard. "I said disconnect it. I don’t want to hear another damn call from anyone."

"Yes, sir." Her voice trembled as she rushed to obey, pulling the cord free from the line. The ringing died abruptly, leaving the room too quiet.

Then, Brackham walked around his desk and sat down heavily, his jaw still tight. He rubbed his forehead with two fingers, then lowered his hand to the desk, staring at the polished surface as if he could see the chaos reflected there.

"Fools," he muttered under his breath. "All of them. They sit behind screens and papers and call it leadership. And now that the city is bleeding, they think they can run to me for comfort and questions."

The secretary hesitated, unsure if she should stay or leave.

Brackham didn’t even look up as he added coldly, "If anyone calls again—senators, press, or military—I’m not available. Not until I decide otherwise. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," she replied quietly.

"Good. Now get out."

She nodded quickly and hurried from the room. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Brackham alone with his thoughts and the faint echo of that relentless phone still ringing in his head.

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting toward the city skyline outside his window.

The streets below were already in lockdown, sirens wailing in the distance, flashing lights cutting through the fog.

Duskmoor was suffocating under the weight of its own fear. And Brackham was losing his grip on the illusion of control.

---

Two hours later, the muffled hum of helicopter blades cut through the silence of Duskmoor’s grey sky.

The whirring grew louder until the glass panes of the government house trembled faintly.

Brackham lifted his head from where he sat behind his desk, the half-drained glass of whiskey untouched since it was poured.

A few minutes later, his secretary burst in again, her face tight with apprehension.

"Sir," she said quickly, "the senators are here. They just landed—twelve of them."

Brackham blinked, almost disbelieving. "What?"

"They... they say it’s urgent. They are in the conference room waiting for you."

Brackham stood slowly, his jaw clenching. ’Those cowards should be hiding in their bunkers now, not marching into my office,’ he thought bitterly.

Still, he straightened his jacket, adjusted his tie, and walked out.

By the time he entered the conference room, the tension inside was palpable. The air smelled of stress and expensive cologne.

Most of the senators, their faces drawn tight with exhaustion and fear, were already seated around the oval table in dark suits.

"Gentlemen," Brackham greeted curtly as he took his seat at the head of the table. "I assume you are here because of the attack."

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