Draw the draft

The real power remained in the hands of the factions, the unseen orchestrators of the nation’s fate.…. The ornate halls of the Constitutional Court buzzed with a tension thick enough to choke on. Outside, Seoul simmered, a pressure cooker about to explode. Inside, Justice Moon Hyung-bae’s voice, amplified and grave, echoed, “President Yoon Suk Yeol violated his duty… a serious challenge to democracy.” In this South Korea, the presidency was a gilded cage, a pseudo-monarchy elected by the people, yet stripped of true power. The president was a figurehead, a reassuring presence, a ceremonial overseer of the judiciary, legislature, and executive, none of which he truly controlled. Yoon, however, had dared to forget his place. Driven by a desperate, misguided desire to “restore order,” he’d invoked martial law, a relic of a bygone era, a move that the real power brokers, the entrenched political factions, deemed an unforgivable overreach...

Ben, oblivious to the economic implications, simply asked, "Can I have more jam, Dad?"…. The familiar ding of a text message pierced the haze of John’s post-night shift exhaustion. “Five strawberry spreads, five raspberry jams,” the message from his wife, Sarah, read. John sighed, dragging his beat-up sedan towards the local grocery store. He couldn’t fathom why they needed so much jam, but Sarah’s requests were rarely questioned. Inside, the brightly lit aisles seemed to mock his weariness. He shuffled towards the jam section, only to find a chaotic scene. The shelves were nearly bare. Three lonely jars of St. Dalfour strawberry spread remained, and the space where Bonne Maman raspberry preserves should have been was a gaping void. He grabbed the remaining strawberry spreads, a frown creasing his forehead. What on earth is going on? He arrived home, handing the strawberry spreads to Sarah, who was supervising the kids’ breakfa...

The numbers, 1600 dead, 3400 injured, 139 missing, flashed through his mind. His son was now one of those numbers.…. The air hung thick with dust and the acrid scent of pulverized concrete. Around him, Mandalay lay broken, a jagged landscape of collapsed buildings and twisted metal. Friday’s 7.7-magnitude earthquake had ripped through the city like a vengeful god, and now, amidst the ruins, Kyaw knelt, his hands raw and bloody. His apartment building, once a vibrant hub of family life, was now a tomb. He’d clawed his way through the wreckage, his clothes torn and stained, the phantom weight of lost limbs pressing against him. His son, little Aung, was somewhere beneath the rubble, buried alive. Kyaw’s eyes, bloodshot and wild, focused on a section of the collapsed floor. He dug, his nails ripping against the shattered concrete, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Aung! Aung, Papa’s here!” he screamed, his voice hoarse. He lifted a heavy ...

And no one, absolutely no one, is seeking a ceasefire."…. The humid air of the Oval Office hung heavy, thick with unspoken tensions. President Trump, his face a mask of calculated frustration, swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “That Putin,” he muttered, the words barely audible, “he thinks he’s playing some grand game.” His national security advisor, a lean, sharp-eyed woman named Evelyn Walsh, placed a satellite image on the desk. “Sir, our intelligence shows a significant build-up of Russian forces near the Ukrainian border, specifically around the mineral-rich Donbas region. They’re positioning heavy artillery, and the new conscripts are arriving daily.” Trump’s eyes narrowed. “They want the minerals, the rare earth elements. They think we’re blind. They’re right about one thing, we do want those minerals, but we’re going to get them on our terms.” A secure line buzzed. “It’s Peskov, sir,” Walsh said, handing him the phone....