Forging America: My Campaign Manager is Roosevelt-Chapter 98 - 68: Administrative Attack

To Carter Wright, this was just an administrative procedure.

But to Leo, it was his jugular.

Next Tuesday was payday.

Hundreds of workers, hundreds of families, were waiting for this money to pay their rent, buy food, and cover their children’s school fees.

If the paychecks didn’t go out on Tuesday, the once disciplined "Worker Vanguard Team" would fall apart in an instant.

It took months to build trust, but only a day for it to collapse.

Leo sat behind his desk, looking out the window.

The construction site was silent. The heavy machinery was all powered down, lying dormant like a pile of scrap metal.

The workers gathered in small groups, smoking cigarettes and talking in low voices.

The pride and drive that had filled their eyes in previous months were gone, replaced by doubt, anxiety, and fear for the future.

Frank pushed the door open. The tough man looked as if he had aged ten years overnight.

"Leo, I can’t hold them off anymore," Frank said, his voice low. "Old Mac just asked me if we’ll be paid on time this week. His wife is in the hospital and he urgently needs the money. I... I didn’t have the heart to answer him."

Leo opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

’What could he say?’

’That we’re following procedure?’

To someone who desperately needed money to save a life, that was all just bullshit.

The evening news was playing on the television.

The scene cut to City Hall.

Mayor Carter Wright sat behind his large desk, his brow furrowed, a look of grave concern for the city and its people on his face.

"I personally feel a deep sense of regret about the difficulties the urban renewal project is currently facing."

Carter Wright faced the camera, his tone sincere.

"Mr. Leo Wallace is a very passionate young man, I have never denied that. However, passion alone is not enough to manage a city."

"It requires experience, a respect for the rules, and professional management skills."

"The recent series of safety and environmental violations has fully exposed this young team’s managerial shortcomings. But I want to assure the citizens that the city government will not stand idly by. We will help them rectify these issues, ensuring that every cent of taxpayer money is spent safely and in compliance with regulations."

He had casually deflected all the blame back onto them.

He framed the obstacles he had created as a result of Leo’s incompetence.

He was telling all the voters: ’See? This young man might be a good person, but he’s too green. He’s not capable of managing a project, let alone an entire city.’

Leo turned off the television.

Silence fell over the room.

Only the clock on the wall kept ticking, TICK-TOCK, TICK-TOCK. It was the sound of a countdown.

Less than six days until payday.

Two months until the primary election.

But he already felt like he was suffocating.

This was the real political meat grinder.

No flashing swords or heated debates.

Just mountains of forms, ubiquitous warnings, and a frozen bank account.

Your opponent didn’t even need to confront you head-on. He just had to lift a finger, using the vast bureaucratic machine to bleed you dry.

Leo stared at the mountain of rectification notices on his desk and felt an unprecedented wave of exhaustion.

His money was frozen.

His supporters were being divided by racial rumors.

His energy was being endlessly drained by these meaningless administrative procedures.

He felt like he might actually lose.

’Mr. President...’

Leo called out in his mind, using the last of his strength.

’Is there any way out?’

’We’re trapped. Completely and utterly trapped.’

In the familiar space of his consciousness, there was only silence.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt sat in his wheelchair, not answering immediately.

This was a rare silence.

In the past few months, whenever Leo had encountered difficulties, that confident, even slightly arrogant, voice would always chime in at once with precise guidance.

But this time, there was only a deathly silence in his consciousness.

Roosevelt looked at the despairing young man before him.

He saw his younger self in him—that sense of powerlessness when facing a behemoth, that suffocating feeling of being bound hand and foot by invisible ropes.

But he also saw a danger.

"Leo," Roosevelt finally spoke. His voice lacked its usual vigor, instead carrying a deep hesitation. "I can help you. I know how to handle this situation. In my lifetime, I faced predicaments far worse than this countless times."

"However, I am hesitating."

’Hesitating?’ Leo screamed in his mind. ’What time do you think it is? My team is about to fall apart, my funds are frozen, and Carter Wright is slowly crushing my windpipe! What are you hesitating for?’

"I’m hesitating because I wonder if I’ve intervened too much."

Roosevelt removed his signature pince-nez glasses and began to slowly polish them in his hand.

"From the start of the campaign, to the negotiations with Morganfield, and then to using Sanders. Every step, I was the one thinking, I was the one making the decisions. You executed them well—perfectly, even."

"But that is precisely what worries me."

Roosevelt looked up, his gaze complex as he stared at Leo.

"If you grow accustomed to my presence, accustomed to me breaking every deadlock you face, then does Leo Wallace still exist? Are you still that passionate young man who wants to change Pittsburgh? Or are you becoming another me? Becoming a walking corpse for Franklin Roosevelt in this century, a mere vessel to extend my will?"