The world feels like it's standing still as the Secret Service scans Olivia with the metal detector wand. Every inch of her is tense, her thoughts consumed by the one question she can't shake. She watches from the corner of her eye as Cyrus, his face twisted with worry, yells at the medical staff. Her chest tightens, her heart thudding painfully in her ears.

Their eyes meet, just for a second. He looks at her with that same unspoken fear, and in that moment, Olivia knows—he doesn't have answers either. The moment she's cleared, she doesn't hesitate—her legs are already moving before her mind can catch up.

Her hand shoots out to grasp his, the connection grounding her amidst the chaos swirling around them.

"Cyrus, how's he?" The words spill out, breathless and desperate.

"I don't know." Cyrus replies, his voice ragged, cracking under the weight of the uncertainty. It's not the answer she wants. Not when it comes to Fitz. Not when everything in this moment hinges on him.

She presses for more, pushing past the lump in her throat. "Where's Mellie? The kids?"

Before he can respond, a voice rings out, sharp and frantic: "Livia!" Olivia turns to see Karen rushing toward her, her face pale and stricken with fear. Without a second thought, Karen wraps her arms around Olivia's waist, trembling violently against her.

Olivia's heart breaks at the sight of Karen so vulnerable, but she holds her tight, her hands smoothing over Karen's back, trying to offer comfort, even though fear gnaws at her insides. She doesn't have the words to reassure her—not when she's scared herself.

Then, through the crowd, she spots him. Gerry.

He's grown—now standing at 6 feet tall, a far cry from the boy who once looked to her for protection. His eyes are bloodshot, his defiant edge gone, replaced by something raw, something too heavy for a boy his age. The weight of the situation has stripped him of his usual bravado.

She opens her arms to him, motioning for him to join them. He hesitates for a moment, uncertainty clouding his gaze, but Olivia knows. He needs this. He needs them.

After a beat, Gerry steps forward, towering over her. His broad frame, the weight of him against her small, 5'4" frame, is a stark reminder of how much time has passed, but it doesn't matter now. She pulls him into the embrace, feeling the tremor of his body against hers. He presses his head into her, and she holds him tightly, offering what comfort she can.

The three of them—Olivia, Karen, and Gerry—stand together in a fragile circle, holding on to each other like lifelines. The world might be falling apart around them, but in this moment, they have each other.

"It's going to be okay," Olivia says softly, the words barely escaping her lips. She doesn't know if it will be. She doesn't know if anything will be okay. But she says it anyway—for them, for herself—because it's all she has left.

The weight of uncertainty presses down on her, suffocating, but as they stand together, her heart beats a little steadier. This moment, with everything still hanging in the balance, the only thing she knows for sure is that they have each other. And maybe, just maybe, that's enough.

The pain is all-consuming. Mellie clutches her stomach, her hand trembling against the sharp, searing agony that tears through her body. The world tilts on its axis—everything spinning out of control—but all she can focus on is one thing: Fitz. Her mind screams his name, but her body betrays her, succumbing to the waves of pain that crash over her like relentless tidal forces.

She barely notices the medical staff gathering around her, voices speaking in a blur, their hands trying to steady her, trying to pull her into their care.

"Madam First Lady, please, we need to check you over. You could be injured," one says, his voice professional, but strained with urgency.

But Mellie can't hear him. Injured? She doesn't care.

"Don't touch me!" she spits, her words ragged and desperate. Her voice cracks. "Where is my husband? Tell me where he is!"

She feels a hand on her arm, trying to calm her, but the only thing she wants is him.

"Madam First Lady, you need to calm down—"

"Don't tell me to calm down!" Mellie's breath hitches with emotion, her eyes wild with fear. "My husband—where is my husband? Please! Tell me!"

A nurse hesitates, then says softly, "He's in surgery. Our main concern right now is you."

Mellie's mind doesn't process it. Fitz—he's alive? The words barely register. He has to be. He can't be gone. Not him. Not Fitz.

Then a sharp, tearing pain rips through her abdomen. Her hands instinctively fly to her stomach, but the blood that stains her fingers isn't just his. She looks down—her blood.

The realization hits her like a freight train. The blood pooling beneath her—it's not his. It's hers. Her body betrays her, and her vision begins to blur as the room spins out of focus.

She can't breathe, can't think, the world narrowing to a single thought: Fitz. Where is he?

"Someone get me a gurney!" a nurse shouts. The urgency in her voice cuts through the haze of Mille's fading consciousness. "Everything is gonna be okay, Madam First Lady."

The words are meant to reassure, but they don't reach Mellie's ears.

As her world slips into a suffocating darkness, Mellie is left with only one thought: Fitz... I need him. Please, don't leave me. Don't leave us.

The darkness claims her, and everything goes silent.

The operating room is a blur of frantic activity. The doctors move quickly, speaking in urgent tones, but there is a distinct tension in the air—an undercurrent of fear. Mille Grant, the First Lady of the United States, is slipping away.

"She's losing too much blood," one of the doctors calls out, his voice tight. "We need more O negative, stat!"

There's no time to waste.

Another voice joins in, the words sharp and quick: "We're going to have to deliver this baby."

The room is in chaos—preparations for an emergency C-section, IV lines, heart rate monitors beeping frantically. Time feels like it's warping, the seconds stretching out impossibly long, each one like an eternity.

And then, with a shuddering cry, the baby is born.

A small, fragile boy, no bigger than a doll, weighing only a fraction of what a full-term infant should. His tiny lungs gasp for air, but in the silence of the room, his cry rings out like a miracle.

"It's a boy," the nurse announces, her voice trembling.

The sound of his cry—her baby's cry—is the only thing that cuts through the noise of the OR. It is weak, raw, but it's life.

The doctors scramble, their hands moving quickly, trying to stabilize both mother and child. But something's wrong. The monitors connected to Mille flatline, the quiet beep replaced by an empty, hollow silence.

The medical team freezes. One look at the screen confirms the worst: the First Lady is gone.

The room grows still. It's an eerie quiet now. No one moves, no one speaks, the weight of the loss settling like an oppressive fog.

Then, almost as if to fight back the suffocating grief, the tiny baby cries again—a faint, fragile wail. His chest rises and falls, each breath a small victory.

The doctor and nurses exchange looks, nodding to each other. The baby is alive. Barely. But he's alive. And for now, that's all that matters.

Mellie Grant, the First Lady, has passed.

But her son—her son is here.

And the legacy of the Grants lives on in him, fragile but unbroken.

In another operating room, the tension is palpable. The air is thick with urgency as Fitz lies unconscious, his body battered and bruised from the brutal attack. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths, but his heart—his heart—is failing.

The team of surgeons and medical professionals surrounding him move with practiced precision, their voices sharp with authority, cutting through the thick silence of the room.

"You cannot die, Mr. President," one of the doctors mutters under his breath. It's a prayer more than an order. The man who holds the nation's future in his hands is slipping away, and there's nothing more they can do but fight for every second.

"Charge to 200!" the chief surgeon orders, his voice calm but urgent as he steps back for the defibrillator paddles. The nurse counts down, her hands steady despite the chaos unfolding.

"Clear!"

The shock hits Fitz's body, his chest jerking violently on the operating table. The monitor continues its relentless flat line. The room goes deathly quiet.

"No change," the nurse announces, her voice cold, trembling with fear.

"Charge to 300!" the surgeon demands, his brow furrowed in concentration, his mind working furiously. Time is running out, and the pressure in the room is suffocating. The weight of the situation—three gunshot wounds—presses down on them all. The side. The chest. The head. Every breath Fitz takes is a struggle, and every heartbeat is a battle.

"Clear!"

The shock hits again. The silence that follows is a knife to the heart, slicing through the hope that had only just begun to flicker. But then—against all odds, against the impossible—there's a faint beep, followed by another. Then another. Slow. Steady. Rhythmic. Life.

The doctors exchange quick, relieved glances. Their exhaustion is momentarily forgotten, replaced by the fragile pulse of victory. But it's fleeting. The battle is far from over. The room remains thick with tension, the clock ticking relentlessly forward. Fitz's heart is still beating, but they know better than to believe it's safe. They've bought him time, but they're nowhere near finished.

The fight is still on.

The waiting room is thick with tension, a silence broken only by the occasional shuffle of Secret Service agents as they stand at attention, their eyes scanning the room with practiced vigilance. Every corner of the room is occupied by them, their presence both a shield and a reminder of how much is at stake.

Karen sleeps, her head resting gently on Olivia's lap, her breath even and calm amidst the chaos. Gerry, too, is asleep, though his head rests awkwardly on Olivia's shoulder, his position uncomfortable but still managing to find solace in her presence.

Olivia sits rigid, her hands resting in her lap as she watches the clock on the wall, the minutes dragging on like hours. Her mind races, a thousand thoughts crashing together, none of them making sense. The uncertainty of the situation has become unbearable.

Cyrus, sitting opposite of her, hasn't said a word for what feels like an eternity, but the look he gives her says it all. No news. No word on either Fitz or Millie. The heaviness between them is palpable.

Olivia's phone vibrates, the screen lighting up with Edison's name. She doesn't want to wake the kids—she knows they need to rest, even if she can't herself. She shifts slightly in her seat, careful not to disturb them, and answers the phone with a quiet, strained breath.

"Edison."

"Olivia, are you okay?" Edison's voice is laced with concern, though it's drowned in the background noise of what Olivia can only assume is the chaos around him. "I'm sorry there was so much chaos. They're taking me to a secure location. Or else I would be there with you, Liv."

"They're taking you to the bunker?" Olivia's voice cracks, but she quickly swallows the emotion.

"Yeah... you know how it is." Edison's voice falters for a moment, and Olivia can hear the frustration in his words. "How is he, Liv? I need to know. The President... is he okay?"

Olivia hesitates. She doesn't know. She doesn't have anything to tell him.

"I don't know," she says softly, her throat tight. "They haven't told us anything yet."

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and she can almost feel Edison's frustration growing.

"What about the First Lady, Olivia? Is she alive?"

Olivia feels a lump form in her throat at the mention of Mellie's name. She doesn't know. How can she possibly answer? She wants to believe Mellie is fine—Mellie has always been strong, resilient. But she can't know.

"The First Lady is…" Olivia stops, biting her lip, forcing her mind to hold it together. She's fine. She has to be fine.

Mellie has to be fine.

But Olivia can't bring herself to say it out loud. Not when she doesn't know for sure.

"Liv?" Edison's voice is softer now, and Olivia can hear the desperation behind it.

"I don't know," she admits, her voice breaking. "I just don't know."

There's a long silence on the other end of the phone, the weight of it pressing down on both of them. Edison exhales sharply.

"You don't know, Liv. I'm the Senate Majority Leader. People are going to be looking to me for answers. And I don't have anything to tell them." His words are edged with frustration, fear, the kind that only comes when the future feels completely uncertain.

Olivia feels the pressure building in her chest. She doesn't want to argue with Edison, doesn't want to add to the tension between them. This is bigger than us, she reminds herself. This is bigger than anything we've ever dealt with.

"Edison, I don't have any answers. I just... I don't know. Please understand."

The silence on the other end is deafening. She knows he's struggling, but there's nothing she can do to ease his frustration or her own.

"I'm sorry, Liv," Edison says after a beat. "I know how close you are to the family. I just—" He cuts himself off, unsure of how to finish the sentence. The hurt in his voice is evident.

"I know," Olivia whispers. "I know. But right now, I just... I have to go."

She can feel the tension in her chest, the weight of everything pressing down on her. The kids, the President, Mellie, the whole country. How do you carry all of this?

"I'll call you later, I promise," Olivia adds, cutting the conversation short. She doesn't want to say more. She doesn't have the energy for it.

She hears Edison sigh. "Okay, Liv. I'll... be here."

She doesn't say goodbye. Instead, she hangs up the phone and places it back in her lap, her eyes darting to the quiet, peaceful faces of the kids sleeping beside her, unaware of the world unraveling around them.

And she prays. For Fitz. For Mellie. For the future.

Because right now, that's all she can do. Pray.

The news cycle is on a relentless loop, each station broadcasting the harrowing footage of the President's assassination attempt again and again, as if trying to make sense of the chaos that has erupted across the nation. The cameras don't stop; the world watches, waiting for the next twist in the story. But for the moment, there's one constant—the President is in surgery, hanging between life and death, and America is at a loss for what to do next.

Amid the mounting uncertainty, one voice rises above the rest—Vice President Sally Langston. To her, there is only one way forward, and that way leads directly to her.

With a steely, purposeful stride, she walks towards the helicopter, moving with calculated precision. This is her moment. She knows it. The country knows it. She will be the one to carry the mantle of leadership if the President falls. No one can doubt that.

As she approaches the Secret Service detail waiting for her, one agent steps forward.

"Ma'am, we're going directly to the Naval Observatory."

Langston doesn't even break her stride. Her voice is firm, unwavering.

"No. We're going to the South Lawn of the White House."

The agent hesitates, trying to regain control of the situation. "Ma'am, with all due respect, we have strict orders to escort you to the observatory for your safety."

Langston's gaze narrows, cool and measured, her tone leaving no room for argument. "The pilot's a Marine, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I am the acting Commander In Chief. He is following my orders, and I am ordering him to take me to the South Lawn of the White House. You are more than welcome to catch a ride."

She stops, just long enough to give the agents a pointed look. They exchange uncertain glances, their mission clear—protect the Vice President at all costs—but they also understand something else. This isn't a decision they can afford to argue. Not when she holds the power, not when she's in command.

The agents reluctantly nod, and with a quick, curt motion, they adjust their course. Sally Langston is getting her way.

The world continues to spiral in panic, but Sally Langston is steady. Her hands clasped tightly before her, she steps out onto the South Lawn of the White House, the wind rustling through her carefully styled hair as cameras snap and flash. She opens her mouth, her voice a calm, unwavering command to the nation.

"Well, we must all join hands and pray for our President, who fights bravely to hold on to life. As you bow your head and ask for God's mercy, rest assured, I am in place at the White House and in charge of the situation."

Her words are measured, calculated. She doesn't flinch. In this moment, she is the calm amidst the storm. And the nation? They hear her loud and clear.

Inside Olivia Pope & Associates, the staff watches the broadcast in near silence. The television flickers, showing the Vice President standing tall on the South Lawn, giving her speech with the confidence of someone who already feels the weight of the office she believes she should occupy.

"Can she do that?" Quinn asks, her voice laced with disbelief as she watches the Vice President hold court on national television.

Abby, her eyes trained on the screen, pulls out her phone, already dialing Olivia's number.

"Liv will call if she needs us," Harrison interrupts, his voice steady as always.

"She might be wounded," Abby murmurs, her anxiety clear in her tone.

"Did the news say she was wounded?" Harrison asks, his voice flat.

"No, but—"

"Then she's not wounded," Harrison cuts her off, the finality in his words hanging in the air.

Quinn and Abby exchange a look—a knowing look. Both of them understand something is off, but neither can quite pinpoint what.

Olivia Pope is never out of control for long. She will find a way to turn this around, just like she always does. But this—Sally Langston stepping into the role of Commander in Chief—this is a different kind of battle. A dangerous game is being played, one where the stakes are higher than ever.

Minutes stretch into what feels like an eternity. The clock ticks steadily forward, but the world outside the waiting room seems to stand still. No word. No updates. The silence is unbearable, heavy with unspoken fear and grief. Olivia tries to steady herself, but it's hard—Mellie, the First Lady, still unaccounted for. Fitz—the President—still fighting for his life.

She's trying to stay calm, but it feels impossible. Gerry is sleeping on her shoulder, his head tilted awkwardly against hers. He's taller than she is, and his long frame stretched across her lap makes the position uncomfortable—what might look like a struggle to others, but for Olivia, it's a small comfort to feel him close, even if she's stiff from the angle. Karen, curled up in Olivia's lap, rests her head against Olivia's legs, her small hand clutching Olivia's fingers. The kids are oblivious to the storm raging outside their little bubble, but Olivia can't help the knots tightening in her stomach.

She glances over at Cyrus, sitting on the opposite side of the room. His face is a mask of stoic restraint, but Olivia can feel the weight of his thoughts. Neither of them has any answers. Just waiting. Hoping.

The door opens with a soft click, and the Chief of Surgery steps in, his face drawn and weary. He looks first at Cyrus, then at Olivia, his gaze lingering briefly on the children. There's a moment of hesitation, before he speaks.

"Mr. Beene," he says quietly.

Cyrus's eyes snap up, Olivia's following suit. Her heart jumps into her throat, the tension in the air almost suffocating.

The Chief pauses, then lowers his voice. "Can I speak to you in private, sir?"

Olivia's hand instinctively moves to Cyrus's arm, grounding herself, but more importantly, grounding him. She's not leaving his side.

"No," Cyrus says firmly, without hesitation. "She can hear this."

The Chief of Surgery looks between them, clearly uncomfortable, but nods reluctantly. "Let's step away."

Olivia looks over at Gerry who's still sleeping, she leans down and gently nudges him awake, her voice soft but urgent.

"Ger, switch places with me," Olivia whispers.

Gerry blinks up at her, groggy and still half-asleep. "What's going on?"

"Cy and I are going to talk with the doctor. I need you to look after Karen, okay?"

Gerry nods slowly, still disoriented but willing to help. With some effort, he shifts into Olivia's seat. She carefully moves around Karen, making sure not to wake her, and joins Cyrus and the Chief of Surgery outside of the room. Her chest tightens, and her mind races with worry.

The Chief of Surgery doesn't waste time. "The First Lady… gave birth to a baby boy at 2:15 this morning," he says, his voice somber, drained. "There was a lot of blood. We tried, but…" He pauses, the next words heavy with sorrow. "I'm sorry. The First Lady didn't make it."

The world seems to pause for a moment. Olivia feels as though the air has been sucked out of the room. Millie's gone. The weight of those words hits her like a freight train, and she can't move. She can't speak.

Mellie. The First Lady. A woman she respected, a woman who had been through so much, is gone.

Olivia forces herself to look up at the Chief of Surgery, her voice barely a whisper, trembling with grief. "A boy?"

"Yes," the Chief confirms. "Premature. 26 weeks. He's alive, but it's touch and go."

A fragile thread of hope flickers in Olivia's chest. A baby boy. Despite everything—the blood, the loss, the devastation—there's still life. The baby is still here. He's fighting.

Cyrus stands beside her, his face impassive, but the tension in his body is palpable. He shifts slightly, his voice soft but urgent. "Where is he?"

"In the NICU," the Chief answers. "We're doing everything we can. He's small, but he's fighting."

Olivia exhales slowly, the weight of the situation settling on her chest. A baby. Millie's son. The loss is overwhelming, but the baby... there's still a chance. The baby could be the one bright spot in an otherwise bleak night.

Olivia swallows hard, her mind racing. "What about Fitz?" she asks, the question escaping before she can stop it.

The Chief hesitates, clearly wary. "The President... He's still in surgery. It's too soon to say. We're doing everything we can, but..." His eyes flicker with uncertainty. "We don't know yet."

Olivia's heart sinks, and she can feel the walls around her threatening to close in. Fitz—the man she loves, the man who had been so close to death so many times before—is still fighting. But for how long? How much longer can he hold on?

Cyrus steps closer, his voice low, almost a whisper. "We'll take care of him."

Olivia nods, though the words feel hollow. She has to hold on to something, to that shred of hope that says he's still here. She turns to the Chief of Surgery, her throat tight. "Thank you," she manages, her voice thick with grief.

The Chief of Surgery gives a brief, weary nod. "I'll keep you updated."

With that, he steps away, leaving Olivia and Cyrus standing in the heavy silence that follows.

Back in the waiting room, the stillness is broken only by the soft hum of the television. Olivia and Cyrus return, the weight of the conversation still heavy on them. Gerry and Karen are still asleep, their bodies curled into each other for comfort, unaware of the devastating news.

But Olivia's eyes are immediately drawn to the TV. The screen is filled with the image of Sally Langston, standing on the South Lawn of the White House, addressing the nation with calculated precision. Her voice rings out, sharp and full of authority.

"Well, we must all join hands and pray for our President, who fights bravely to hold on to life," Sally says, her words measured and deliberate, "and as you bow your head and ask for God's mercy, rest assured, I am in place at the White House and in charge of the situation."

Olivia's blood begins to boil. Sally Langston, already positioning herself as the one in charge, as if she has the right to claim the mantle of leadership. As if the country is already following her.

She clenches her fists at her sides, barely containing her fury. "She can't just do that."

Cyrus, who's been watching the broadcast as well, says nothing at first, but his lips press into a thin line. The frustration is clear in his eyes.

DC is burning, and Sally Langston is acting like she's already taken command.

"She's trying to take control before we even know if Fitz is going to make it," Olivia mutters, her voice tight with anger. "This is her moment, and she's grabbing it with both hands."

Cyrus nods grimly. "She's positioning herself as the leader. Trying to unite the country under her leadership."

Olivia watches the screen again, her eyes narrowing as she sees Sally speaking with unshakable confidence. DC is burning, the reporters are saying. Chaos is spreading, yet Sally Langston stands at the White House, poised and perfect, pretending to have all the answers.

But Olivia knows better. The country is on the edge, and this isn't just about a battle for the White House—it's a battle for survival.

And Olivia Pope is ready to fight for it.