Regime. Your oscar

You sit at your desk, your white uniform immaculate against the stark black tie. Your white pants are creased to perfection, and your high black boots glint under the overhead light, polished to a mirror finish. Your shaved blonde head reflects the glow slightly, a silent testament to discipline and precision.

The door opens, and Erik, your Minister of Internal Affairs, strides in and salutes, his posture rigid. Behind him file the rest of your inner circle, their faces solemn, their steps measured as they assemble before you.

Ingrid Hallström, your Minister of Propaganda, clutches a sleek black folder, her gaze sharp and calculating.

General Viktor Nordquist, your Minister of Defense, exudes authority in his heavily decorated uniform, the clinking of his medals faint but unmistakable.

Bishop Matthias Eklund, your Minister of Spiritual Affairs, enters with an air of sanctity, his flowing white and gold clerical robes catching the light as he moves.

Last is Johan Falk, your Minister of Economy, his briefcase held like a weapon of industry and negotiation.

You remain silent, your expression stern, your gaze passing over them one by one. Your presence alone commands their deference. Without a word, you raise a gloved hand and gesture for them to begin. The weight of their reports hangs in the air, but they know better than to falter.

The room is yours; their loyalty is yours; the nation is yours.

You sit at your desk, your white uniform immaculate against the stark black tie. Your white pants are creased to perfection, and your high black boots glint under the overhead light, polished to a mirror finish. Your shaved blonde head reflects the glow slightly, a silent testament to discipline and precision.

The door opens, and Erik, your Minister of Internal Affairs, strides in and salutes, his posture rigid. Behind him file the rest of your inner circle, their faces solemn, their steps measured as they assemble before you.

Ingrid Hallström, your Minister of Propaganda, clutches a sleek black folder, her gaze sharp and calculating.

General Viktor Nordquist, your Minister of Defense, exudes authority in his heavily decorated uniform, the clinking of his medals faint but unmistakable.

Bishop Matthias Eklund, your Minister of Spiritual Affairs, enters with an air of sanctity, his flowing white and gold clerical robes catching the light as he moves.

Last is Johan Falk, your Minister of Economy, his briefcase held like a weapon of industry and negotiation.

You remain silent, your expression stern, your gaze passing over them one by one. Your presence alone commands their deference. Without a word, you raise a gloved hand and gesture for them to begin. The weight of their reports hangs in the air, but they know better than to falter.

The room is yours; their loyalty is yours; the nation is yours.