He gamed the scenario again and again. Same result.

Forty-two million. Three weeks of withheld funds. The precedents clear—1917, 1932, 1992. Empty stomachs predicted behavior. Not criminality. Survival.

Troops positioned. Blue strongholds. Before the riots, not after.

He’d worked crisis modeling for sixteen years. Knew the sequence: deprivation, desperation, disorder. Knew how disorder photographs. Knew what photographs justify.

His colleague asked what he was working on.

Nothing, he said.

At night he deleted his models. Backed them up first—old habit—then deleted them. As if his knowing made it real. As if not knowing made it less so.

Three days later the store windows broke. Mothers with strollers. The footage ran in loops.

He watched the speeches. Strength. Order. Necessity.

His models had predicted the timing within hours.

He’d never wanted to be wrong about anything more. Never.

But he wasn’t wrong.

Security would escort him out soon. This time he’d made copies he could keep.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​