The rain fell heavily in Harrisburg, streaking down the floor-to-ceiling windows of the State Capitol Building and blurring the view of the Susquehanna River outside.

Aston Monroe sat behind his desk, a thick document spread open before him. It was densely packed with countless dates, bill numbers, and voting results.

It was Russell Warren’s complete voting record from his time in the Federal Senate.

Monroe held a red marker, occasionally drawing a circle on the document.

"Look here, Paul."

Monroe pointed to one of the lines.

"Warren voted against the amendment to the ’Clean Water Protection Act,’ citing the need to protect energy jobs in Pennsylvania."

His campaign manager, Paul Turner, who was standing beside him, leaned in.

"That was to curry favor with the shale gas companies," Turner added. "They’re his donors."

"Exactly." Monroe drew a heavy X over the year. "But in the eyes of middle-class housewives in the Philadelphia suburbs, this is ironclad proof that he disregards children’s health and supports polluting corporations. Suburban voters today care most about the environment and health. This is his Achilles’ heel."

Monroe turned a page.

"And here, on the vote regarding women’s abortion rights, he voted no. A typical old white male conservative stance."

Monroe shook his head, a hint of disdain in his voice.

"Russell Warren is old. His thinking is still stuck in the Reagan era. He thinks he can win elections forever with God, guns, and anti-abortion rhetoric. He has no idea that Pennsylvania’s demographics are changing."

"Philadelphia is expanding, and young, college-educated people are pouring in. They hate Warren’s stale brand of preaching."

Monroe closed the folder and tossed it onto the corner of his desk.

"This fight is simpler than I thought."

Monroe stood up and walked to the window, gazing at the rain-soaked city.

"We will frame Warren as a ghost from the past. An old diehard who obstructs progress, hates women, and destroys the environment."

"And I, Aston Monroe, am the future."

"I am the new generation of leader—rational, inclusive, and embracing technology and green policies."

Turner chimed in from the side, "This binary narrative is very effective. Our polling data shows that if we just hammer these points, the swing votes in the four key counties around Philadelphia will shift to our side."

"As for the party primary..." Monroe turned around, a relaxed expression on his face. "Is that Murphy from Pittsburgh still pushing his Rust Belt revival?"

"Yes," Turner replied. "He and that influencer-mayor are all over the place promoting their 500 million US Dollar bond, claiming they’re going to rebuild their industrial glory."

"Industrial glory?" Monroe laughed out loud. "What a quaint term. It’s like polishing rusty armor in a museum. He thinks he can win an election with nostalgia? He’s forgotten that those factories moved to Vietnam and Mexico long ago. They’re not coming back."

"Let him waste his time. He’ll drop out on his own once he realizes that 500 million US Dollars can’t buy back a bygone era."

Monroe sat back down in his chair and opened another file: the guest list for a fundraising dinner.

In his mind, the outcome was already decided.

He just had to go through the motions and take the Senator’s seat that was already reserved for him.

「At the same time.」

North of Washington D.C., in the Chevy Chase wealthy area of Maryland.

Inside a red-brick manor hidden behind towering ancient trees, a fire roared in the hearth.

Russell Warren sat in a leather armchair in his study.

He was sixty-eight years old, with a full head of silver hair and wrinkles etched deep into his face like carvings.

As a veteran Republican Senator who had held a grip on Pennsylvania politics for thirty years, he was a key member of the Senate Armed Services and Energy committees.

He was one of the most powerful men in Washington.

On the desk in front of him lay two file folders.

One was labeled "Aston Monroe."

The other, "John Murphy."

Warren was holding a glass of bourbon.

Standing opposite him was his chief political advisor, a lean man named Carl Roves.

Roves wore a dark gray turtleneck sweater. His eyes were sinister, and he was known within the Republican Party as the "Black Cardinal."

"Boss, Monroe’s strategy is clear."

Roves pointed to the folder on the left.

"He’s going to play the identity politics card, the environmental card, and the women’s rights card. He wants to wage a culture war against you in the Philadelphia suburbs."

Warren grunted and took a sip of his drink.

"That little rich boy from Philadelphia. This is all he’s got."

Warren’s voice was low and hoarse.

"He thinks Pennsylvania is just Philadelphia. He thinks he can win just by pleasing those middle-class types who sip lattes and read the New York Times."

"He forgets that there are two million angry, white, blue-collar workers in this state. They live in the folds of the Appalachian Mountains, by the abandoned coal mines."

"They don’t care if polar bears are losing their homes. They only care about next month’s electricity bill."

"The more Monroe emphasizes environmentalism, the more he pushes those people toward us."

Warren put down Monroe’s file, not even interested enough to open it.

"I know all his tricks. We just have to paint him as an out-of-touch liberal elite, a rich guy from Philadelphia who wants to take away your guns and your hamburgers, and the sea of red in the middle of the state will drown him."

Warren’s hand reached for the folder on the right.

John Murphy.

He opened the file and took out a photo of Murphy from a recent news interview.

Warren stared at the photo for a long time.

"But this Murphy..."

Warren’s brow furrowed.

"Carl, don’t you think he’s seemed a little different lately?"

"Yes, Boss."

Roves nodded, his expression turning serious.

"This is precisely the main point I needed to report to you."

"John Murphy has been a moderate with no real presence in the House of Representatives for the past eight years. But in the last three months, he’s like a different person."

"He only talks about one thing: jobs."

Roves took out a chart analyzing the latest polling data.

"Look here, Boss. This is data from Western Pennsylvania—our traditional Republican strongholds of Westmoreland County and Washington County."

"In the past month, our support among white, blue-collar men in these areas has dropped by five percentage points."

Warren’s pupils constricted sharply.

"Why?" Warren asked.

"Because Murphy is infiltrating our base."

Roves pointed to Pittsburgh on the map.

"He’s proposed a five-hundred-million-US-Dollar bond plan to expand the Inland Port. He’s telling the workers that this money will bring thousands of high-paying, union-protected manufacturing jobs."

"He’s even started speaking in a very inflammatory, populist tone."

"He’s saying things like, ’We’re going to sell Pennsylvania’s energy and steel to the whole world,’ and ’We’re going to take back our industrial dignity.’"

Roves looked up at Warren.

"Boss, those were supposed to be our lines."

"He stole our playbook."

"What’s more terrifying is that he’s not just shouting slogans. Word from Pittsburgh is that the port project is real, and the Morganfield Group is already on board."

"This means he has the cold, hard cash to deliver on his promises."

Warren set down his glass.

He stood up, walked to the fireplace, and watched the flickering flames.

Like an old fox, he smelled danger in the air.

Traditional Democrats like Monroe weren’t scary, because they were competing with the Republican Party for two completely different groups of people.

But Murphy’s current strategy was to poach from the Republican Party’s base.

He was trying to consolidate the anger of the Rust Belt.

That anger, once the Republican Party’s sharpest weapon, was now in the hands of his opponent.

"That goody-two-shoes Murphy couldn’t have come up with a move like this."

Warren turned around. With his back to the fire, his face was cast in shadow, looking especially sinister.

"He doesn’t have the guts, nor the ability to execute."

"Who is masterminding his strategy?"

"Who is helping him run this so-called five-hundred-million-dollar plan?"

Roves took a photograph from his briefcase.

The photo showed a young man standing on the steps of Pittsburgh City Hall, facing an angry crowd with a grim expression.

"Leo Wallace."

Roves said the name.

"Pittsburgh’s new Mayor. Thirty years old. History department at the University of Pittsburgh."

"Two years ago, he was just a poor student working in a coffee shop, but in six months, he completely upended Pittsburgh’s political landscape."

"He defeated the former Mayor, Carter Wright, and even got the city council to pass a massive budget, which includes this five-hundred-million-dollar plan."

"All intelligence points to one thing: Murphy’s current campaign strategy, the so-called Rust Belt New Deal, is entirely the brainchild of this young man."

"Even the Morganfield Group’s change of heart was single-handedly orchestrated by him."

Warren took the photo.

He looked at Leo’s young but ambitious eyes.

"Thirty years old..."

Warren muttered to himself.

"What an enviable age."

"But also a dangerous one."

Warren tossed the photo into the fireplace.

The flames instantly devoured the picture. Leo’s face twisted and blackened in the fire before turning to ash.

"Carl, we need to adjust our strategy."

Warren stared at the flames, his voice ice-cold.

"Monroe is a dead man walking. Ignore him. No matter how high he jumps in Philadelphia, he’ll never get over the walls of that elite circle."

"But this Murphy, and that Wallace behind him—they’re a virus."

"They’re spreading an extremely dangerous ideology—left-wing populism."

"If we let them ignite this ideology in Pennsylvania, if we let them prove that the Democratic Party can actually bring jobs to blue-collar workers..."

"...then our entire base in the Midwest will be shaken."

"This isn’t just about my seat. It’s about the future of the entire Republican Party."

Warren turned, walked back to his desk, a murderous glint in his eyes.

"Dig into Leo Wallace’s background."

"Dig into his past, his school records, his family."

"A thirty-year-old who can stir up this much trouble... I don’t believe he’s clean."

"If you can’t find any dirt on him, then create some."

"I want his strategist crippled before Murphy’s campaign really gains momentum."

"Understand?"

"Understood, Boss." Roves closed the folder. "I’ll send people to Pittsburgh. That young man will soon find out the consequences of offending a big shot in the Senate."

Warren picked up his glass again and walked to the window.

Outside, the Washington night was deep and dark.

Hundreds of miles away in Pittsburgh, a new storm was brewing.

The young Mayor thought he had won.

But he didn’t know that when you gaze into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.

And Russell Warren was that abyss.