Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport.

Leo, carrying a simple suitcase, walked out of the jet bridge.

The moment his feet touched the ground, a strange sensation spread throughout his body.

It wasn’t just a change in geographical location; it was more like walking into a massive force field.

"Can you feel it, Leo?"

Franklin Roosevelt’s voice echoed in his mind.

The voice of the president who had once been elected to four terms no longer held its usual passion. Instead, it was filled with a deep disgust and indifference.

"This city is rejecting me."

Leo dragged his suitcase through the bustling crowd. He was surrounded by elites in dark suits, all rushing about.

They clutched BlackBerrys or the latest iPhones, talking about hearings, lobbying groups, and amendments.

’Rejecting you?’ Leo asked inwardly. ’You were one of this city’s greatest masters in history.’

"Precisely." Roosevelt scoffed. "They made too many preparations, set up too many defenses, all for a single purpose."

"To prevent another Roosevelt from ever appearing."

"They’re afraid," Roosevelt continued. "They were terrified of me. I broke all conventions. I extended the Federal Government’s reach into every American’s pocket and bedroom."

"I wielded unprecedented executive power, bypassing Congress to command this nation directly."

"In their eyes, I’m not a savior."

"I am Caesar."

"I am the tyrant from their nightmares."

"So, the moment I died, they acted."

Roosevelt’s voice was tinged with mockery.

"They passed the Twenty-second Amendment, shackling the presidency with term limits, terrified that someone else might sit in the White House until their heart stopped, just like I did."

"They built a vast and cumbersome civil service system, creating countless rules for hearings and reviews. They brought administrative efficiency to its lowest point, all to ensure that no single person could ever again wield the power to summon the wind and rain."

"This entire city is a giant cage."

"It was specifically designed to lock up the beast of power. It is precise, sturdy, and ruthless."

"And now,"

Roosevelt let out a sigh.

"we, the two who wish to unleash the beast, have walked willingly into this cage."

Leo walked into the parking garage alone.

Among the long line of rental cars, he found the black Chevrolet he had reserved.

He tossed his suitcase into the trunk with a dull THUD.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

A new text message popped up: "Dear Mr. Wallace, your hotel reservation is confirmed. Room 802. We wish you a pleasant stay."

It was already late. He would have to stay there for the night.

Leo pulled open the car door and sat in the driver’s seat.

The door closed, and the narrow cabin instantly shut out the clamor and humid air of the airport.

He didn’t start the engine right away.

Gripping the steering wheel, his mind drifted back to an hour ago, in the cabin of the plane at 30,000 feet. Amidst the monotonous drone of the engines, he had engaged in a strategic wargame with Roosevelt.

It was a session on how to break the stalemate.

Back then, Leo had looked at the clouds outside the window and asked the core question: "Who exactly should we approach? Is Sanders’s list useful?"

Roosevelt’s answer was a firm no.

His reasoning was both cruel and realistic.

"Sanders can’t help us. It’s not just that he doesn’t want to; it’s that he can’t."

"On the political map of Pennsylvania, Aston Monroe is the chosen crown prince of the Democratic Party’s Establishment Faction. He’s a weapon finely honed by the entire party machine to win the Senate seat."

"The party’s top brass, including the Democratic National Committee, will never allow anyone to disrupt the grand plan."

"Sanders may be the leader of the Progressives, but he is also a Democrat. He can help you within the rules, like securing funding or restoring your data access. But he would never openly support you, the Mayor of Pittsburgh, in dismantling the party’s entire strategy in Pennsylvania."

"That’s a red line."

"If you go to the people on Sanders’s list—the deputy secretaries, the advisors—they will receive you politely, drink your coffee, listen to your complaints, and then tell you: ’Please wait patiently for the process to unfold.’"

"They will bury you in procedure."

"Because that is the will of the party."

Leo remembered asking himself at the time, ’So we’re at a dead end?’

"No."

Roosevelt had laughed.

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

"It is an ancient and eternal truth."

"Leo, think outside that damned party framework. Stop seeing yourself as a Democrat and start seeing yourself as a gambler who just wants to win."

"In this game, besides us, who else least wants to see Aston Monroe win the midterm election?"

"Who else least wants to see the Democratic Party in Pennsylvania united and charging forward with unstoppable momentum?"

The answer was obvious.

The incumbent Republican federal Senator from Pennsylvania.

Russell Warren.

The old-guard conservative who had been entrenched in Washington for thirty years, representing the interests of energy giants and the military-industrial complex.

"Think about Warren’s situation," Roosevelt had analyzed on the plane. "He’s facing a tough reelection battle. Pennsylvania is turning blue, and the demographic shifts are working against him."

"If Aston Monroe wins the Democratic primary,"

"then Warren will be facing a formidable opponent with a perfect résumé, a moderate image, the ability to unite all factions within the party, and access to massive campaign funds."

"It would be an uphill battle, and Warren would very likely lose."

"But,"

"what if the one who wins the primary is John Murphy?"

"An old nice-guy congressman just coasting in the House of Representatives, a freak labeled as a radical leftist, an opportunist who barely rose to prominence on the back of a young mayor’s populist slogans."

"Moreover, to win the primary, Murphy and Monroe will inevitably fight a bloody civil war. The Democratic Party will be fractured in Pennsylvania, the Progressives and the Establishment Faction will attack each other, and swing voters will be disgusted."

"For Warren, that would be a gift from God."

"A chaotic, divided Democratic Party, hijacked by radicalism, is far easier to deal with than a united one."

"He would be praying for Murphy to win the primary."

"Because the stronger Murphy gets, the more chaotic the Democratic Party becomes. And the more chaotic the Democratic Party becomes, the more secure Warren’s reelection is."

That was the key to breaking the stalemate.

Leo didn’t need help from the Democratic Party, because the Democratic Party wanted them dead.

They needed help from the Republican Party.

Leo gripped the steering wheel tighter. He knew exactly what this meant.

Sanders had drawn a red line for him in that phone call. If he crossed it, he would become an opportunist in Sanders’s eyes, a Judas who betrayed his camp.

But he had to cross that line.

He had to be the traitor.

Because in this deadlock, his party colleagues wanted him dead, and his political allies were powerless to save him.

Only his enemies had a reason for him to live.

The car started, pulling out of the parking garage and merging into the flow of Washington traffic.