The early morning sun shines through the bulletproof glass windows of the Oval Office of the White House, casting narrow spots of light on the carpet. I stood in front of the window, my fingers caressing the cold and hard texture of the window sill unconsciously. Behind me, there was the soft sound of a pen scratching the paper - that was my father, President Graham, signing a thick document.
"Clark," his voice broke the silence, with his usual calmness, but could not conceal a trace of subtle fatigue, "come here."
I turned around and watched him place the pen on the mahogany desk. My father's hair is whiter than last year, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes are becoming clearer under the light of the overhead light. As the leader of this country, he is used to covering up his emotions with majesty, but at this moment I can understand the complexity in his eyes - it is the expectation for his son, and maybe a little worry.
"The appointment letter of Raccoon City," he pushed over a document with a gold cover, "has been approved by the Department of Justice and the Senate. Starting from next Monday, you will be the chief of the Raccoon City Police Department."
