Forging America: My Campaign Manager is Roosevelt

Chapter 315 - 155: The Composure of Power

In Pittsburgh, the May weather had already turned warm.

A rare quiet settled over the Mayor’s Office on the third floor of City Hall.

There were no unfolding crises, no angry crowds blockading the entrance, and no shrill, ringing phones.

Only one sound filled the room.

"SCRATCH, SCRATCH."

It was the sound of a pen nib scratching rapidly across paper.

Leo Wallace sat behind his desk, dressed in a well-tailored dark shirt. The top button was undone, and the cuffs were neatly rolled up to his elbows.

A mountain of files was stacked to his left.

They were requests, budget approvals, personnel transfer orders, and all sorts of administrative contracts from over twenty different city departments.

Six months ago, the sight of this paper avalanche—enough to bury a man alive—would have made Leo feel like he was suffocating.

He would have anxiously run his hands through his hair, helplessly calling out to Roosevelt in his mind, asking about the deeper meaning behind every ordinance, terrified that a single misplaced signature could ruin the city.

But now, his movements were surprisingly fast.

Leo picked up a document.

It was the "Urgent Budget Request for the Procurement of Twenty New Snowplows" submitted by the city’s Public Works Department.

The justification was written in a pleading tone, emphasizing the aging of current equipment and the threat of future blizzards. The requested budget was three million US Dollars.

Leo only glanced at the summary, his eyes jumping directly to the equipment price quote in the appendix.

His gaze turned cold.

He drew a heavy line with his pen in the approval section at the end of the document.

"Denied."

The nib danced across the paper as he wrote a line of text.

"Current equipment repair rate is below 60%. Prioritize repairing vehicles in stock. Procurement plan postponed to the next fiscal year."

He placed the document on the "processed" pile to his right.

Then came the second.

A request from the Police Department for an increase in overtime pay for night patrols.

Leo paused for two seconds.

He recalled the recent crime statistics for the South District and the safety concerns of night-shift workers heading home.

Then he signed it.

"Approved."

But he added a note.

"Requires monthly submission of patrol route GPS records as a basis for disbursement."

The third.

The fourth.

The fifth.

Leo’s mind was like a high-precision processor, rapidly extracting key information from the long-winded bureaucratic jargon, weighing pros and cons, calculating costs and benefits, and then making a decision.

No hesitation.

No second-guessing.

And certainly none of the cautious tiptoeing of someone trying to please everyone.

He cared about only one thing: whether it served the interests of Pittsburgh, and whether it aligned with his will.

An awe-inspiring quality was beginning to settle upon the young man.

It was the absolute self-confidence that naturally arises after one has taken the pulse of this vast city.

Sitting there, with just a pen, he could control the flow of tens of millions of US Dollars, determine the work of thousands of civil servants, and affect the daily lives of three hundred thousand citizens.

This control was more real, and also more profound, than when he had stood in the square giving a speech to thousands.

In Leo’s conscious mind, Franklin Roosevelt sat in his wheelchair.

This mentor, who usually loved to play armchair general in Leo’s head and even offer a sarcastic comment or two, was unusually quiet today.

He simply watched Leo in silence.

For a long time.

It wasn’t until Leo had finished a batch of urgent documents, set down his pen, and reached for his coffee cup that Roosevelt finally spoke.

"Leo."

Roosevelt’s voice was soft.

"You’ve changed."

Leo’s fingers touched the warm side of the cup.

He didn’t look up, his gaze not even shifting from the document in front of him concerning the "Winter Heating Gas Subsidy."

"For the worse, Mr. President?"

Leo took a sip of coffee, his tone level.

"No."

Roosevelt shook his head.

"You’ve become heavier."

Leo set down his cup, but he still didn’t look up, picking up his pen again.

"Heavier?"

"Yes, heavier."

"Six months ago, when you first took this seat, you were like a fire."

"You were angry, you were passionate. You saw every injustice in this city and wished you could rush in and burn it all to ash."

"Back then, you were searing hot."

"You could ignite the emotions of the masses, you could ignite the fighting spirit of Frank and the others."

"But fire is unstable."

"When the wind blows, it flickers. When the rain falls, it is extinguished. Fire may be dazzling, but it cannot bear weight."

Roosevelt looked at Leo’s expressionless profile.

"But now, you are like a piece of iron."

"Steady, cold, and hard."

"You no longer anger easily, nor do you get excited easily. When faced with bureaucrats trying to obstruct you, you no longer slam the table and roar as you once did. You’ve learned more effective ways to deal with them."

"You’ve learned to ignore the personal insults directed at you."

Roosevelt pointed to a newspaper at the corner of the desk, on which were printed the opposition’s baseless attacks on Leo’s private life.

Before, Leo might have torn it to shreds in anger, but today, he didn’t even glance at it.

"This is good."

Roosevelt said.

"Because only iron can bear the weight of a great building."

"And I’ve discovered something even more interesting."

Roosevelt’s deep-set eyes stared at Leo.

"You’ve begun to enjoy power."

The pen in Leo’s hand froze in midair.

"Enjoy?" Leo finally looked up. "Do you think I’m enjoying this? Dealing with these damn useless documents every day, tangling with this pack of greedy Vampires?"

"Don’t be so quick to deny it."

Roosevelt chuckled.

"The enjoyment I speak of isn’t the vanity of being surrounded by crowds, nor the prestige of riding in a luxury car with a police escort."

"That’s a low-class enjoyment, the thrill of the newly rich."

"I’m talking about another kind of enjoyment—one that is higher, and more subtle."

Roosevelt’s gaze gestured toward the document in front of Leo.

"What were you just looking at?"

"An executive order for additional winter heating subsidies for impoverished communities on the North Shore," Leo replied.

"Five hundred families."

Roosevelt said.

"If you sign this, that money will be transferred from the treasury’s account to the gas company."

"When the temperature on the North Shore drops below freezing, the radiators in those five hundred homes will grow warm, and they won’t wake up shivering in their sleep."

"All it takes is a flick of your wrist, two seconds to sign your name."

Roosevelt’s gaze sharpened.

"That is the nature of power, Leo."

"It is the ability to directly change the physical world with the utmost efficiency."

"You felt no excitement just now, not even the slightest emotional fluctuation."

"You simply treated it as a matter of course."

"You feel that as long as you sign your name, it is done. This absolute command over cause and effect, this certainty that your will can be directly translated into reality."

"That is the ultimate temptation of power."

"And you are already addicted."

Silence fell in the office.

Leo looked at Roosevelt.

He wanted to object.

He wanted to say he was only fulfilling his duties, but he found he couldn’t refute it.

Because Roosevelt was right.

Once upon a time, just to help Margaret and the others save their community center, he had to rack his brains, mobilize public opinion, and battle the bureaucracy.

But now, he only needed to circle a line on a document, and millions of US Dollars would flow, and the fates of thousands of people would change.

The feeling was indeed intoxicating.

It made him feel his own existence more than any cheering crowd ever could.

Leo lowered his head.

He looked at the heating subsidy document.

White paper, black ink.

Below was the approval stamp already affixed by Blake Finch, waiting only for his final stroke.

Leo uncapped his pen.

On the line at the bottom of the document, he signed "Leo Wallace."

The strokes were firm, the signature clear.

"SCRATCH."

And just like that, five hundred families would be warm.

Leo closed the folder and placed it on the pile of processed documents.

He looked up again, his eyes profound.

"You’re right, Mr. President."

Leo spoke.

"I have changed."

"Because I finally understand something."

Leo stood up, walked to the window, and looked down at the city below.

"Anger doesn’t solve heating problems."

"Neither does sympathy."

"Even if I shout myself hoarse at the steps of City Hall, even if I cry until I pass out for those freezing children, the heating pipes over there won’t warm up on their own."

Leo turned around.

"Only coal can solve it."

"Only pipes can solve it."

"Only money can solve it."

Leo pointed at his desk.

"Before, I always focused on people’s faces. I watched their expressions, listened to their cries. I cared whether they liked me, whether they cursed me."

"But now..."

"I’m more concerned with whether the pipes are clear."

"Whether the machine is running."

"As long as the pipes are clear, the gas can get through, and the houses will be warm."

"As for who’s calling me a dictator, who’s saying I’m cold-blooded, or who’s making petty moves behind my back during the process..."

Leo shook his head, a hint of indifference on his face.

"None of that matters."

"It’s just noise."

Roosevelt looked at the Leo before him.

He was witnessing the birth of a professional politician.

The transformation was cruel, but it was also necessary.

Because only such a person could one day tame the beast known as the state.

"Very good."

Roosevelt nodded.

"You’re finally shaping up, Leo."

Leo didn’t respond to the praise.

He sat back down in his chair and picked up the next document.

It was a report on land acquisition for the second phase of the Inland Port project, which involved the demolition issue concerning a few holdouts.

In the past, he might have hesitated, gone to inspect the site himself, and tried to find a solution that satisfied everyone.

But now, he just glanced at the compensation standard, confirmed that it complied with legal regulations, and was ten percent above market value.

Then, he put a check mark next to the "enforce eminent domain" option.

"SCRATCH."

The pen tip scraped across the paper.

For the greater good, for efficiency, for the five-hundred-million-US-Dollar return on investment.

The inconvenience of a few people was an acceptable cost.

This was the tranquility of power, and also its coldness.

Leo processed these documents late into the night.

"Ethan."

Leo pressed the intercom button.

"Come in and get the files."

The door opened.

Ethan walked in and gathered the pile of processed documents.

He glanced at Leo, who was sitting behind the desk.

For some reason, he felt that today’s Leo seemed particularly tall, and particularly distant.

Like a statue gradually taking its final form.

Hard, silent, and unshakeable.