One sentence.
Five days ago, the explosion that occurred in the Three Feathers area of Washington D.C. was not a terrorist attack. After several experts investigated, the residue collected from the scene ultimately confirmed that it had been a rare accident—unexpected and purely coincidental.
The accident had been unfortunate, but it had absolutely nothing to do with a terrorist attack.
"Humph!"
In the White House, President Satan watched the Department of Homeland Security press conference being broadcast on television. He snorted coldly, silently adding Minister Gene to his little blacklist, then switched off the television. "Notify White Ghost's side. They can act tonight."
A Secret Service agent standing by the door silently nodded, turned around, opened the door, and walked out.
"How are things at the Capitol?"
"They're taking their seats."
"Good."
President Satan took a prescription bottle from his chest pocket, poured out a tablet of pipotiazine, tilted his head back, and tossed it into his mouth. Then he washed it down with the vodka on the table in one gulp. "Call a car. Let's go."
The Secret Service agent hurriedly issued instructions outside.
Soon.
The moment the president's motorcade left the White House, four men in black secretly picked up Karen from the Department of Education building, along with Betty, who had come over to enjoy the president's treatment, and put them into a black sedan of the same caliber as the president's official car. They then secretly drove to an unknown destination.
From that moment onward, the Designated Survivor mechanism began operating.
"Mom."
"What?"
Betty stared at the window, which was so opaque she couldn't see anything outside, then turned to Karen, who was sitting beside her and continuing to review a document. "Isn't this your second time being the designated survivor?"
Karen hummed in reply.
In