"But—"
However, one of the leaders immediately hesitated. He was a balding, obese middle-aged man in an overly tight suit, a ring of excess fat spilling over his collar. Noticing the people beside him watching his expression, he put on a look of surprise—a subtle expression that seemed both ready to voice an objection and to gauge everyone else's reaction. Fear and calculation mingled on his face as his thick fingers unconsciously traced circles over the folder before him.
He feared bearing the moral responsibility of using nuclear weapons—after all, should there be any reckoning after the war, the first person thrown out as a scapegoat would be whoever nodded first in this conference room today—yet he was unwilling to choose the wrong side in the power struggle.
History had proven countless times that in meetings deciding the course of war, the silent ones often got to enjoy the fruits of victory, while those who spoke up first had to shoulder all the risks.
Djibril looked around. His gaze slowly swept across every face, like a snake gliding through grass, accurately catching those subtle, evasive looks.
Then he realized the glances directed at him were seeking his opinion—silent requests for instruction, the usual probing tactic of bureaucrats.
If Djibril retreated now, they would swarm him like sharks that smelled blood.
So he kept smiling, though the warmth in his eyes cooled a few degrees further.
Then, as though he had finally received some sort of authorization, the leader voiced the hesitation everyone already understood.
"Um... launching an all-out attack with nuclear missiles, that..."
Though the leader hemmed and hawed, he still put forth his weak objection.
His words came in fits and starts, his final syllables dragged out as though that could dilute the cowardice within them.
Then opinions in