Leo strode down the hallway and stepped into the elevator.

The metal doors slid slowly shut. The car vibrated slightly as it began its descent.

Leo looked up, gazing at his reflection in the elevator’s stainless steel doors.

His suit was immaculate, his hair perfectly coiffed. He looked like a real big shot.

Just moments ago, he had been boasting to Roosevelt, declaring that being mayor wasn’t the final goal, that he had far greater ambitions.

That drive was real.

But now, as the adrenaline faded, the sense of powerlessness rising from the soles of his feet was also real.

The two weren’t mutually exclusive.

Ambition was the fuel, but reality was the heavy, rusted engine.

Governing and campaigning were two completely different things.

An election was a raging fire.

During an election, the world was black and white. Enemies were enemies, and allies were allies.

As long as you shouted loud enough, charged hard enough, as long as you ignited the passions of the masses, you could part the sea of obstacles like Moses.

It was an almost religious, ecstatic experience that gave you the illusion that with enough willpower, you could bend the world to your will.

Governing, however, was a mire.

Once you took that seat, you were no longer a knight charging across the open plains.

You became a laborer, waist-deep in filth, trying to drag a truck with a rusted axle and burst tires.

Every step forward came at a great cost, consuming a staggering amount of energy.

You couldn’t just rely on shouting slogans.

You had to fill out forms, attend meetings, shake hands stained with grease, and force a smile for faces you wanted nothing more than to smash with your fist.

Leo looked at his reflection, tugged at his tie, and felt the collar grow tight.

’Maybe it’s time to start compromising.’

Logically, he had always known it was inevitable.

Roosevelt had told him, and every political science textbook had the word written in it.

Politics is the art of compromise, the art of the possible.

Countless times in the dead of night, he had told himself that for the greater good, for the final victory, he could endure temporary submission and sacrifice a bit of his dignity.

But when Moretti had actually dismissed him like a begging vagrant...

When he realized he had to go to Moretti’s office today to be lectured...

His body’s reaction was more honest than his mind.

His stomach churned.

He felt sick.

And this was only the first hurdle.

Just one city council president.

In this building, there were still eight council members, all with their own agendas, not to mention Morganfield, and the thousand-odd old-guard bureaucrats in City Hall just waiting to see the new mayor make a fool of himself.

If he had to compromise with them one by one, bow his head to them one by one, and trade favors with them one by one...

By the time he finished this circuit and dragged that truck out of the mire, what would be left of Leo Wallace?

The elevator stopped on the first floor with a DING.

The doors opened, carrying the stuffy smell of the underground parking garage.

Leo unclenched his fists. His palms were slick with cold sweat.

He felt suffocated. The air in this building was thin on oxygen and thick with schemes.

He needed to breathe.

He needed to go somewhere real, to confirm that he was, in fact, still alive.

Leo got in the car.

"To the South District," Leo said to the driver. "To the Steel Worker Community Center."

The driver was a little surprised. He glanced at the young mayor in the rearview mirror, but he didn’t ask any questions. He turned the steering wheel and headed for the other side of the Monongahela River.

The car pulled up in front of the community center.

The place was completely different from a year ago.

The exterior walls had been repainted, a brand-new sign hung by the door, and through the glass windows, he could see it was bustling with people.

Leo pushed the door open and went inside.

A wave of heat washed over him.

This was the feeling of life.

The main hall was lively.

Frank Kovalsky was standing in front of a blackboard, loudly directing a group of workers in orange vests.

"Listen up! The street-sweeping schedule has changed for next week! Joe, you’re in charge of the Second District. And stop sweeping cigarette butts into the sewers!"

"And you, David, get that broken-down snowplow fixed! The weather service says there’s a blizzard coming next week!"

Frank’s booming voice made the windows rattle.

Someone spotted Leo.

"Hey! It’s Leo!"

"Mr. Mayor is here!"

The crowd erupted instantly.

The workers put down their tools, the old women knitting put down their needles, and the children doing their homework looked up.

They crowded around him.

Even though Leo was in a suit now, even though he was a big shot sitting in City Hall, in their eyes, he was still the same young man who ate boxed lunches with them in the temporary housing.

"Mr. Mayor, that new road is fantastic!"

"Leo, when are you coming over for dinner? I made a pie!"

"Mayor, can you do something about those damn parking fees?"

All kinds of voices washed over him.

Leo smiled, responding to each of them as he shook their rough hands and clapped their sturdy shoulders.

The realness of the contact grounded him.

This was his base. These were his roots.

Just as he was about to head further in to pour himself a cup of coffee, his gaze swept across a corner of the hall.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

In the corner was a small round table. It was the spot where Margaret usually liked to sit.

She was always there, full of energy, directing volunteers or handing out cookies to the children.

But today, she sat there.