Conference Room One, Pittsburgh City Hall.

The campaign team brought by Karen Miller had taken over the room.

Over a dozen desks were pushed together, tangled with a mess of multicolored network and power cables.

Printers, paper shredders, and high-power servers emitted a constant low-frequency hum.

Leo stood at the head of the long table.

John Murphy, the Congressman running for Senator, sat at Leo’s right hand.

He held a pen, his notebook filled with notes.

This change in seating arrangement would have been unimaginable just a few months ago.

But now, no one found it the least bit strange.

"Ladies and gentlemen."

Leo rapped his knuckles on the tabletop, drawing everyone’s attention.

"The situation is clear. The suspension order from the State Community and Economic Development Department is in effect. Following standard administrative procedure, a review hearing of this level is usually scheduled three months out."

Leo extended a finger, pointing to a calendar on the wall where a date was heavily circled in red ink.

"But we only have twelve days."

"That is the day Murphy will formally announce his campaign for Senator."

"Media outlets from across the state have already received their invitations. Twenty rented giant cranes have already moved into the port. Three thousand members of the Steel Union are ready to rally. Even the observation delegation from Washington has booked their flights."

"That date is set in stone. It absolutely cannot be postponed. A delay of even one day will completely deflate the Rust Belt revival momentum we’ve worked so hard to build. We’ll be seen as clowns who are all talk and no action."

"If, at that moment, we still haven’t secured the permit to issue five hundred million US Dollars in bonds, and the funds haven’t entered the confirmed issuance pipeline..."

"Then what Murphy will be waving from that podium won’t be a check that can change Pennsylvania, but a worthless piece of paper."

The only sound in the conference room was the whirring of server fans, the atmosphere so oppressive it was hard to breathe.

"So, we don’t have three months."

Leo’s gaze swept over everyone in the room.

"We must get the State Community and Economic Development Department to approve our bond issuance within twelve days."

"We now face two core problems."

Leo stood at the head of the long table, his eyes scanning the conference room, which was packed with local Pittsburgh staff and Washington elites.

"First, the grounds for the administrative review is a lack of statewide synergy."

"Those people in Philadelphia are accusing us of stealing their business. Once the Pittsburgh Inland Port is built, it will divert cargo from the Midwest, directly threatening the Philadelphia Port’s status as Pennsylvania’s only seaport. In the eyes of the State Government, this is a serious case of internal economic cannibalization."

Ethan nodded, his fingers tapping the accusation document on the table. "They’re citing the ’Infrastructure Coordination Act.’ It’s a solid legal barrier."

"Second, and more fatally, time."

Leo pointed to the calendar on the wall again.

"Bureaucratic inertia means delays. They have ten thousand reasons to schedule the hearing for next year."

"But we only have twelve days. If the funding isn’t in place in twelve days, every single one of us in this room will become a joke."

"For these two problems, I don’t have a ready-made answer right now."

Leo’s voice was low.

"But I’m not expecting a miracle, either."

He looked at Murphy, at Ethan, at the highly paid legal consultants and policy experts Karen had brought.

"You are the professionals. You are the experts who study rules, draft laws, and find their way out of the labyrinth of power."

"Now, I need you to get moving."

Leo’s palm slammed down hard on the table.

"I don’t care if you have to dig through the Pennsylvania Comprehensive Code or look up the State Assembly’s meeting minutes from fifty years ago."

"Find me a path."

"Find a clause, a precedent, or a procedural loophole that lets us bypass this damn synergy assessment."

"Find me a legally sound argument that proves Pittsburgh and Philadelphia aren’t enemies in a zero-sum game."

"Is there an emergency exemption clause for Pittsburgh? Is there a fast track? Or in the Port Authority Bill, is there any ambiguity in the definition of logistics?"

"We can’t just sit around and wait for a hearing."

"I want you to find me a legal crowbar to pry open the gates of Harrisburg."

"Now, get to work."

The entire room burst into activity once more.

The political machine that Leo had assembled began to operate at full speed.

Just then.

The phone in Leo’s pocket started to vibrate.

The vibration wasn’t obvious in the noisy conference room, but Leo noticed it immediately.

A familiar name was displayed on the screen: Frank.

Leo answered the call.

"Frank, how’s it going? Are the men holding steady? Tell them their pay is guaranteed for Friday..."

"Leo."

The voice on the other end of the line cut him off.

It didn’t sound like Frank.

None of his usual booming voice, none of that energetic gruffness.

The voice was low and suppressed, like an echo from a deep well.

"I’m at the old wharf by the river."

Frank said.

"I need to see you."

"Now."

"Just the two of us."

Leo’s heart sank.

He turned his head and looked out the window.

In the distance, on the LED screen of the Morganfield Building, a news analysis about the "port privatization" was scrolling by.

Although the mainstream media had deliberately downplayed it, the article titled "Wallace’s Betrayal"—and its accusation of "Judas"—had ultimately broken through all the firewalls and reached Frank’s ears.