Technically, she had the President's residence to herself now. Penny was still in the hospital, and, thankfully, Sasha had made a full recovery, so she wasn't alone. Trey and Kendra had gone to visit them. Tom's will stated that Penny would be in joint custody of Trey and Sasha, much to Emily's relief. Leo had been picked from college by the Secret Service and taken to Washington. At least they were both safe and sound. As for her, she'd been permitted to get some rest, but she didn't think that was going to happen. How could she sleep when she knew that, at any moment, a senator or officer or agent could decide to inform her of something critical?

When she opened the door to the bedroom, she felt a churning sensation in her gut. It didn't feel right. She still felt like she wasn't supposed to be there. This wasn't her room. These weren't her belongings. More than that, how could she sleep in his bed just hours after his death? It felt disrespectful, and truth be told, Emily wondered whether she could ever get over that feeling of invasion. So, she wandered over to one of the guest bedrooms, taking the gym bag of her stuff with her. Mike had gone and gotten her personal effects from her house. That would help to make it feel like she was sleeping in a hotel room, although it was definitely the nicest 'hotel room' she'd ever slept in.

Although she'd cried in bursts over the last few hours, it'd been mainly out of shock and anxiety. Now, as she laid down and settled into bed, she cried with sadness, with the pain of all the losses that were now sinking in. When Emily's eyes eventually closed and her shaking breathing settled, she found herself horrifically replaying the explosion in her mind, the chaos that had ensued. Waking with a scream, her hand came to splay across her chest. Footsteps thundered down the hall, and one of the Secret Service agents opened the door to the bedroom.

"Everything okay, Madam President?"

She nodded, speaking hoarsely. "Just a bad dream…"

The very beginnings of the sunrise were starting to peek over the horizon. Great. It wouldn't be long before someone realised she was up and desperately bombarded her with information. The agent let her sleep for a couple more hours before, finally, the soundscape of voices around the White House became too loud to bear. She stumbled into the staff break room, an old habit creeping up on her, smelling the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. People looked at her strangely, like she was some kind of zoo animal. Some of the younger interns even rapidly stood from their desks.

"It's fine, take a seat," Emily said shortly. Yeah, she could use that coffee.

She then grabbed a protein bar from the vending machine and poured herself a cup before walking back into the Oval Office with a sigh.

It was going to be a long day.

—

With fatigue still shadowing her, she wasn't surprised that despite the additional cups of coffee she drank throughout the day, by about eight in the evening, she could barely keep her eyes open. The FBI still had nothing on the bomb besides a manufacturer label on one of the parts. It didn't exactly mean they could narrow down their potential bomber, or bombers, though.

At two in the morning, another nightmare struck, and she woke up again. At least this time, she felt a bit more refreshed from her rest. Still, Emily knew it wouldn't be easy falling back asleep. So, after tossing and turning for a while, she decided to get up for a glass of water. That wouldn't require security detail, surely. After ducking past some night-shift staff, she made it to the kitchen. She'd never really been in here before. Come to think of it, Emily was sure there was a great deal of the White House she hadn't explored. After all, if it wasn't directly related to her work, she would never have had a reason to venture out further than the usual meeting rooms and offices.

Curious, Emily started down a hallway she was somewhat sure she hadn't been down before. The lights seemed to grow dimmer, making the paintings on the wall appear more haunting, as though she were being watched. Yet there were no Secret Service agents in sight. Logically, the rooms here were most likely no different from the others, just spaces with tables, chairs, and desks for people to work in. Still, there was something eerie about this whole thing. The White House was supposed to be busy at all hours of the day, the most secure place in the country for the President to reside. But Emily believed it wouldn't be too difficult for someone to hide around here. It didn't help that many of Kirkman's security team had been in the arena when it had exploded, meaning the building was far less guarded than it should be.

Eventually, she reached the end. It wasn't bright, but she could still clearly see the landscape painting on the wall, the cornices along the walls. She squinted at the sight of a vertical ridge running from floor to ceiling. No, make that two, separated by a distance about the size of a door. Applying some pressure with her palm, the wall seemed to move. It creaked loudly, as though barely used, before stopping as it became perpendicular to the wall, revealing an empty, dark room. Furrowing her brow, she quickly looked around her - not that anybody should object to the President opening a door in the White House - but still, she felt like she wasn't supposed to be there. Walking in, she pulled her phone from her pocket and turned the flash on.

Emily gagged, her eyes watering, her throat tightening and causing her to cough. She didn't smell anything but still felt she couldn't breathe. There was a soft, hissing sound emanating from something. What, exactly, she couldn't see. With her shaking hand, she moved the phone around, finding a large metal canister set high on a shelf near the vents in the ceiling. As she neared it, faintly seeing the air bend around the object, her eyes started to sting, and her vision blurred. Attempting to take a few photos, Emily dashed out of the room, spluttering, as she restored the door to its original position. After taking a few deep breaths, she noticed the door acted as a seal. Now that it was shut, it was almost like she hadn't gone in there at all.

How long had it been there? What exactly was the gas, and how far into the White House could it drift? Was it lethal? Was she spending the last seconds of her life wondering what was about to kill her?

Whatever was in that room was obviously meant to stay hidden. And considering the last president of the United States had just been assassinated, along with his entire cabinet, Emily had to assume the same people were likely still after her. She had to keep this private. After all, it still couldn't be said whether all of this was an inside job.

She dialled Mike's number, and he was quick to come to where she was, albeit a little delayed by her lack of recall for how exactly she'd gotten to where she was now. It was strange. It had only been about ten minutes since she'd left the kitchen. He, too, reacted the same way once he opened the door. But, they soon realised that since neither of them seemed ill. Maybe there was something else to the nature of this gas. It wasn't a typical gas leak. It wasn't chlorine. It certainly wasn't carbon monoxide, judging by the fact that they were both alive.

"We don't want to create any widespread panic. We don't know what we're dealing with. If it was supposed to kill us, we'd be dead by now. We should keep this secret for now."

"I think I know someone we can call. Someone with no connection to any political parties. Someone who can be trusted."

"Who?"

"Doctor Eli Mays."