The night sky was clear now, the wind biting and cold.

Leo leaned against the railing, the glittering lights of the river delta sprawling beneath him.

The city hadn’t changed, but the man standing here had.

He realized that among the three hundred thousand lights below, not a single one truly understood him.

This was a moment of abandonment by the gods.

When a hero sheds his halo, his followers discover that the one sitting on the altar is just a calculating mortal.

And so they grow angry. They turn their backs. They want to burn the temple to the ground.

Leo pulled a cigarette from his pocket.

He didn’t usually smoke, but he’d been carrying a pack with him for the past few days.

’Mr. President,’ Leo said in his mind. ’I want to ask you something.’

’The "Little Steel" strike of 1937,’ Leo said, gazing into the distance. ’Those workers once saw you as a savior. They hung your portrait in their living rooms. But then, due to political pressure, you told both sides of the strike, "A plague o’ both your houses."’

’Those workers burned your portraits. They stood at the factory gates and called you a liar, a lapdog for the capitalists.’

’How did you feel that night?’

Leo’s voice seemed to drift in the wind.

’Were you angry? Or did you feel wronged?’

In the space of his consciousness, Roosevelt sat in his wheelchair, polishing his pince-nez.

He stopped and looked up.

His face was completely unruffled, showing only a near-divine indifference and clarity.

"I slept soundly."

Roosevelt replied.

"That night, I had a martini, read two Chapters of a detective novel, and then went to sleep."

Leo was stunned.

"Why?"

"Because I am the President," Roosevelt’s voice was steady. "Not their father, and not their nanny."

"Leo, your current troubles don’t stem from their curses."

Roosevelt put his glasses back on, his sharp gaze fixed on Leo.

"You feel frustrated and pained because your evolution is not yet complete."

"You already have the mindset to sell your soul."

"For five hundred million US dollars, for the revitalization plan, you dared to sell the port to Morganfield. You dared to kill the innocent version of yourself in your heart. That kind of decisiveness is something many politicians never learn in their entire lives."

"However, your experience and your abilities are far from sufficient to allow you to maneuver freely in the gladiatorial arena of power."

"You’re like an intern who’s just been handed a scalpel. You have the courage to cut open a patient’s chest and the determination to save them, but your technique is too weak."

"When you see the blood spurt out, when you hear the patient curse you in pain, you panic."

"You start to doubt your own surgical skill, to fixate on the patient’s screams."

"A truly top-tier politician, when excising a tumor, has a steady hand and a cold heart. He doesn’t hear the curses; he only sees the lesion."

"The reason you’re suffering right now is that your ambition has outrun your ability."

"In this complex game, you’re trying to grasp every loose thread—you want to satisfy the workers, satisfy the Union, and satisfy the students."

"That’s impossible."

Roosevelt’s voice turned severe.

"Admit it, Leo. Your methods are still naive. Your response in the auditorium just now was tough, yes, but it was a toughness born of desperation."

"If you were truly seasoned, you wouldn’t have even given that student the chance to throw the pin on stage."

Leo fell silent.

He really was just putting on a brave front.

He was maintaining this precarious situation in a manner that was almost self-destructive.

"Prepare for the worst."

Roosevelt offered his advice.

"Murphy’s campaign might lose. Your approval ratings might continue to fall."

"Accept these possibilities."

"And then, on top of those ruins, continue to build your house."

"In this position, being misunderstood is the norm; being appreciated is the exception."

"If you don’t even have that much mental fortitude, if you still need the applause of the crowd to survive..."

"Then you don’t deserve to be the Mayor."

Leo took a deep breath of the frigid air.

The stinging in his lungs sobered him.

He crushed the unlit cigarette in his hand and tossed it into the wind.

"Understood."

Leo turned and walked toward his car.

"Time to go back."

「City Hall, Mayor’s Office.」

Leo pushed open the door, sat down in his chair, and turned on the television on the opposite wall.

The evening news was being rebroadcast.

The screen flickered, and the scene cut to Scranton, in northeastern Pennsylvania.

The background was the hall of a veterans’ association.

The hall was packed with veterans in garrison caps and their families.

Russell Warren stood at the podium, a massive Stars and Stripes behind him.

He had just finished a routine speech on "patriotism" and "veterans’ benefits," and the atmosphere was electric.

During the Q&A session, a reporter, who had clearly been planted, stood up and brought the microphone to his lips.

"Senator, what are your thoughts on the current chaotic primary on the Democratic Party’s side? Vice Governor Monroe accuses Representative Murphy of being too radical, while Representative Murphy accuses Vice Governor Monroe of inaction."

Warren leaned on the podium with both hands, a disdainful smile spreading across his face.

He knew this sound bite would be played repeatedly on the evening news and clipped into short videos pushed to the phone of every voter in Pennsylvania.

"My thoughts?"

Warren’s voice boomed into the microphone.

"This is the state of the Democratic Party, my friends. This is a tragedy."