novelnext Chapter 81 is just another Tuesday.
Chapter 81 is just another Tuesday.
Chapter 81 is just another Tuesday (Bonus chapter for Alliance Leader "Xiaobing will always support you")
In Pittsburgh, a light rain began falling in the early morning and showed no signs of stopping.
The rain wasn't heavy; it was just dense, cold, and seeped into every crevice of the city.
This is primary election day.
There was no boisterous drumming, no rousing march, and no colorful balloons rising into the sky as I had imagined.
There wasn't even a single campaign vehicle on the street making a last-minute announcement to garner votes.
The city was unusually quiet.
Carnegie Avenue was still congested during the morning rush hour, with long lines of red taillights creating a blurry halo in the rain and mist.
The workers, still carrying metal lunchboxes, expressionlessly surged toward the factory's time clock.
The coffee shop windows were covered with condensation, and the people queuing inside were looking down at their phones, waiting for a hot coffee that would get them through the morning.
Everything looked no different from any other Tuesday in the past eight years.
The city doesn't seem to care who will become its master today; it just keeps operating according to its established inertia.
But if you shift your gaze away from the grand cityscape and focus on the corners of the streets, on the unassuming community centers, fire stations, and public libraries, you'll find something unusual.
Near the university town in Auckland, a group of young people who usually sleep until noon in their dormitories appeared on the streets in the early morning.
They were wearing hoodies and huge headphones.
They stood silently in the rain, holding their voter registration cards.
The line was very long, stretching from the entrance of the polling station for two blocks.
The rain soaked their sneakers, but no one left and no one complained.
In the workers' communities of the South District, the situation was even more alarming.
Those older blue-collar workers who had long been disillusioned with politics and vowed never to vote for any politician again stepped out of their homes.
They stood in line, wearing old work clothes stained with oil or jackets issued by the union, offering each other cigarettes, their eyes resolute.
This is a silent understanding.
They simply came out, lined up, and waited.
Inside the prefab office at the campaign headquarters.
Ethan Hawke sat in front of that huge monitor.
On the screen is a real-time zoning map of Pittsburgh.
The data above is fluctuating wildly.
Karen Miller stood behind him, arms crossed.
She worked as a campaign manager for over a decade and experienced countless nerve-wracking election days.
But she had never seen such a sight before.
"Something's not right," Karen muttered to herself.
Typically, primary election voter turnout is very low, and the curve is very flat until a small peak appears during the evening rush hour.
But on the screen now, the blue curve representing the voter turnout is not climbing.
It is taking off.
It is a straight line that is almost vertically upward.
"By noon, the voter turnout had already exceeded forty percent," Ethan's voice was hoarse. "That's the total voter turnout for the entire day in the last mayoral election."
"That's not scientific."
Karen stared at the screen. "No large-scale rallies, no overwhelming barrage of votes, where did all these tickets come from?"
"It came out from underground." Frank walked in from outside, soaking wet after inspecting several polling stations, but with an almost arrogant smile on his face.
"Of course you data guys wouldn't understand." Frank grabbed a bottle of water and gulped it down. "You only focus on the people who can talk, but today, all the people who are usually silent have come out."
Ethan looked at the electoral data points that were constantly turning red and hot, and felt a strange sense of dread.
This is an outpouring of emotions that have been building up for too long.
Leo was not at the campaign headquarters.
On this fateful day, he should have been visiting various polling stations, shaking hands, and displaying confidence in front of the cameras.
But he didn't.
He drove alone, leaving the bustling city and heading towards Mount Washington along the winding mountain road.
He parked his car at the observation deck next to the famous Durcan Slope cable car station.
This is the highest point in Pittsburgh.
Standing here, you can see the entire city center skyline at a glance.
The Mononga Hilla River and the Allegheny River meet at your feet, their murky waters colliding under the gray sky to become the mighty Ohio River flowing westward.
This delta has seen far too many ambitious people.
Three hundred years ago, French explorers in military boots hid behind dense bushes, greedily watching this strategically vital land that would determine the fate of North America.
Later, the British colonial governor stood on the same precipice and planned the famous Pittsburgh fortress, intended to control the New World.
Andrew Carnegie must have been here too.
That short Scotsman, standing here, looking at the endless chimneys on both sides of the valley, at the blast furnaces that spew flames day and night, turning the sky orange-red, must have felt that he was the god of this land.
Those people, those arrogant conquerors, those industrial giants who held the reins of wealth, all stood here, overlooking the same river, convinced that they had grasped the pulse of the times.
Now, it's Leo Wallace's turn.
It's still raining.
The city was shrouded in a gray fog.
The Morganfield Tower still towers high into the clouds in the distance, while the dome of the City Hall is faintly visible in the rain and mist.
Leo braced his hands on the wet railing, letting the rain soak his hair.
He felt a peace he had never known before.
The excitement on the debate stage, the anxiety of fighting bureaucrats on the construction site, all vanished at this moment.
"Can you feel it, Leo?"
Roosevelt's voice echoed in his mind.
"I can feel it," Leo answered in his mind. "It's very quiet."
Yes, quiet.
Roosevelt seemed to be observing this industrial city, which he once knew so well, through Leo's eyes.
"This is the voice of democracy."
"People always think that democracy is shouting in the square, debating in parliament, and the winners celebrating under the confetti."
"Actually, none of those are true."
"True democracy is happening right now."
"It was tens of thousands of ordinary people silently queuing in the rain."
"It's the rustling sound of countless thin pieces of paper falling to the bottom of the ticket box."
"The sound was so soft that you could barely hear it."
"But when tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of such voices come together..."
Roosevelt paused.
That's the sound of the old era collapsing.
"That's the sound of the foundations of power being uprooted."
Leo looked down at the city below the mountain.
He imagined those small voting booths, with rough hands and young hands casting their solemn votes.
They entrusted their trust, their anger, and their faintest hope for the future to him.
This is a suffocating weight.
"Can I do it well?" Leo suddenly asked.
He has been fighting for the past few months, and he has never doubted himself.
But in these final moments, faced with the weight of public opinion, he felt a sense of unease.
"Of course you'll make mistakes," Roosevelt replied curtly.
"You'll stumble in this city, you'll make wrong decisions, you'll disappoint some people, and you might even get criticized worse than Cartwright."
"This is the price of power."
"But, Leo."
"Just remember this rainy Tuesday."
"I remember this quiet."
"I remember how you stood here looking down at this city."
"Then you'll never get lost."
Leo closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the moist air.
The coolness coming from his lungs made him feel refreshed.
Time passed by, second by second.
The sky gradually darkened.
The city streetlights began to come on, casting long, orange shadows on the wet pavement.
Six o'clock in the afternoon.
The polling stations in each community closed on time.
The last voter cast his ballot.
Seal the box.
The vote counting has begun.
Leo opened his eyes.
He noticed that the lights on the city hall building down the mountain seemed dimmer than usual.
It was once an invincible center of power, a fortified stronghold built by Cartwright.
But at this moment, in Leo's eyes, the building had lost its former majesty.
It looks like just a pile of old stones.
A house that is about to change hands.
This steel city silently completed yet another power transfer in its history.
It was as if nothing had happened.
It's as if everything has changed.
Leo turned around and walked towards his car.
"Let's go, Mr. President."
Riora opened the car door.
"Karen and Ethan are still waiting for us; they're probably going crazy with worry."
"Where to?" Roosevelt asked.
Leo started the engine, and the headlights pierced the darkness.
"Let's go where we're going."
"Go and take over this city."
>