Alexander Hamilton wanted a strong federal heart, a centralized machine that could control the nation’s financial lifeblood like a pump.

So they struck a deal over drinks at a dinner party.

They drew a circle on the banks of the Potomac River, a place inhabited by no one but wild ducks and alligators.

They dedicated this swamp to power.

This was a city built entirely by sheer force of human will.

Its street layout mimicked the radial avenues of Paris, designed to facilitate cavalry charges to suppress riots. Its architectural style copied the temples of Greece and Rome, an attempt to build a sanctity from stone that did not otherwise exist.

But in the beginning, it was just a muddy village.

Congressmen lived in leaky wooden cabins, pigs and chickens roamed freely on Pennsylvania Avenue, and diplomats complained that the humidity would give them rheumatism.

Until the British came with fire.

In 1814, British troops invaded and burned down the Congress Building and the President’s Mansion.

The flames devoured the wooden structures but, unexpectedly, forged the city’s bones hard.

Upon the ruins, stone replaced wood, and the will for vengeance replaced the laziness of quiet isolation.

The Civil War that followed caused it to swell completely.

The blood of millions nourished its roots.

To win the war, to preserve the unity of the Federation, power began to concentrate here at an unprecedented rate.

Railroads, telegraphs, armies, taxes.

All resources flowed in, converging along the Potomac River.

The city began to devour the surrounding land like a cancer, transforming from an administrative village with a few dilapidated houses into a white marble monster poised to consume everything.

But what truly gave it a soul—or rather, its "divinity"—was the year 1933.

Before that, Washington was merely the capital of the United States of America, an administrative center for domestic affairs.

After that, Washington became the Rome of the world.

The man in the wheelchair arrived.

Facing the abyss of the Great Depression, he did not choose to retreat, nor did he adhere to the old laissez-faire doctrine. He chose to make a huge gamble.

He vastly expanded the boundaries of the Federal Government.

Countless agencies, known by their acronyms—WPA, CCC, NRA, SEC—sprang up from this swamp like mushrooms after a spring rain.

He cranked the power of this machine called the "Federal Government" to its maximum.

The once-loose federal system was forcibly welded into a single iron plate.

Washington was no longer just a place for making laws. It became a place that handed out bread, a place that soothed hearts over the radio waves.

He created a Leviathan.

This Leviathan’s tentacles reached into every corner of American life, from the price of milk on the dinner table to the interest rates in banks, from the minimum wage in factories to pensions for the elderly.

It became omnipotent, and it became immense.

And now, this Leviathan lay quietly in the crook of the Potomac River’s arm, exuding a suffocating pressure in the darkness of the night.

At an altitude of ten thousand meters, the engines of the Boeing passenger jet droned with a monotonous, dull roar.

The cabin lights were dimmed, and most of the passengers had fallen asleep.

Leo Wallace sat by the window, not at all sleepy.

He turned his head, resting his forehead against the cold glass of the porthole window, his gaze penetrating the thin clouds to the brilliant sea of light below.

The plane was descending.

The nightscape of Washington D.C. was completely different from the lights of Pittsburgh, which were filled with a bustling, gritty, industrial feel.

The lights here were orderly, solemn, possessing a kind of cold beauty.

This was an epic written in stone, and a labyrinth built from power.

Leo watched it all.

He was just a young Mayor from Pittsburgh, carrying a briefcase full of pleas for help.

Before this behemoth, he felt like a sheep trying to wander into a lion’s territory—small and fragile.

"Look, Leo."

Franklin Roosevelt’s voice was filled with an extremely complex emotion.

It was a mix of pride and an ineffable sorrow.

"This is my creation."

Roosevelt seemed to be looking down through Leo’s eyes at the city he had ruled for twelve years.

"When I first arrived, this place was still filled with the pedantic air of a bygone era. Those old-fashioned gentlemen sat in their clubs drinking brandy, believing the government’s only functions were to collect taxes and deliver mail."

"I changed it."

"I used the bricks and mortar of the New Deal to fill in its swamps. I used the fires of war to forge its skeleton."

"I turned it into a sophisticated war machine, a great machine capable of crushing fascism, saving the world economy, and sending humanity to the moon."

"Back then, this machine was alive."

"It was full of power, full of efficiency. Every turn of its gears was meant to snatch lives back from the jaws of death on this planet."

Roosevelt’s voice grew somber.

"But now..."

"Look at it."

Following Roosevelt’s guidance, Leo looked down at the brightly lit cluster of buildings below.

"It’s too big."

"It’s grown far too bloated."

"Those temporary agencies, once established to deal with crises, have now become permanent bureaucratic fortresses. The power that was once centralized for efficiency has now become a breeding ground for corruption."

"This machine has rusted, Leo."

"It’s wrapped in layers upon layers of millions of laws, regulations, hearings, and Lobbying Groups. Every one of its joints is clogged with the grit of backroom deals."

"When I left, it was a sharp sword."

"Now, it looks like a bloated tomb."

"A white sepulcher that has buried its ideals, running on nothing but inertia."

A strange chill crept into Leo’s heart as he listened to Roosevelt’s lament.

This was the very tomb he had to challenge.

He had to cut an opening in this lifeless behemoth and let his meager hope trickle out.

Leo asked himself, ’Can we win?’

He wasn’t just asking Roosevelt, but also himself.

In Pittsburgh, he had faced Moretti and Carter Wright. As difficult as they were, they were right there in front of him—enemies of flesh and blood.

But here, in Washington, he wasn’t facing any one person.

He was facing a system, an inertia, an immense force that had been operating for over a century, powerful enough to devour any challenger.

"Whether you can win doesn’t depend on how big the machine is."

Roosevelt’s voice hardened again.

"It depends on the people operating it."

"The machine is dead. The people are alive."

"Even if it’s a tomb, there are living people inside. And as long as they’re alive, they have desires, weaknesses, and fears."

"The machine may be rusted, but its power source is still there."

"As long as we can find the person with the strongest desire, as long as we can put the fuel into his hands."

"This machine will start turning again."

"Whether it crushes our enemies or crushes us."

The cabin announcement came on, reminding passengers to stow their tray tables and return their seats to the upright position.

Leo straightened his collar.

He looked at the approaching runway lights below, at the city lying dormant in the night like a great beast.

He had no path of retreat.

Pittsburgh’s five hundred million US Dollars, Frank’s trust, Murphy’s political future, and his own destiny.

Everything was riding on this landing.

"Welcome to Rome, Leo."

Roosevelt said softly.

"Remember the smell of this place."

"It’s the smell of the swamp, and it’s the smell of power."

"Don’t drown in it."

The plane slammed onto the runway, its tires screeching against the tarmac.

The powerful reverse thrust pressed Leo back into his seat.

This is Rome.

This is the center of the world.

This is the ultimate arena where rules are made, spoils are divided, and life and death are decided.

The cabin lights came on, and the flight attendant’s voice came over the broadcast, welcoming everyone to Washington D.C.

The surrounding passengers stood up, grabbing their luggage and making phone calls.

Only Leo remained seated, pausing for two seconds. 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

"Are you ready?" Roosevelt’s voice sounded. "To bleed, or to be crowned."

Leo unbuckled his seatbelt, the metal clasp making a sharp CLICK.

He stood up, grabbed his briefcase, and strode toward the cabin door.

He was here.

With a dagger from the Rust Belt, he was stepping into the most dangerous arena in the world.