The chandeliers of the old conference hall flickered as rain pattered against the tall windows.
Trump and Putin sat across from each other at an ornate table — gold trim, crystal glasses, and documents laid neatly between them.
“Good to see you again,” Trump began, his voice warm but eyes darting toward the folder in front of Putin.
“Likewise,” Putin replied, leaning forward. “I have something for you… something important.”
He slid the folder across. Trump opened it, expecting trade proposals or diplomatic talking points. Instead, his face stiffened — photographs, transcripts, and a single USB drive.
“This… where did you get these?” Trump asked, trying to keep his tone calm.
Putin’s smile was faint but cutting. “From friends. It seems… someone in your circle has been very talkative. Very disloyal.”
Trump flipped through the pages — messages between one of his closest allies and a rival political faction. It wasn’t just gossip; it was strategy, deals, and betrayals, all documented.
“You’re telling me my own man is selling me out?” Trump said, gripping the folder tighter.
“I’m not telling you,” Putin said, standing. “I’m offering you a choice. Believe me… or believe him.”
As Putin walked toward the door, he turned back.
“Remember, Donald — in politics, the knife always comes from someone close enough to hug you.”
The door closed. Trump sat alone, staring at the folder, realizing that the real danger wasn’t across the table — it had been sitting next to him all along.
