Chapter 581 - 272: Pennsylvania, Pennsylvania

3:00 PM.

In the square before the State Capitol Building, the crowd had yet to disperse.

After last night’s bloodshed, the number of protestors had not diminished. Instead, it had doubled.

The furious crowd held up enormous banners with the words "MURDERER," "TYRANT," and "CAMPBELL MUST GO."

Muffled shouts penetrated the thick glass of the State Capitol Building’s press conference hall.

"MURDERER! MURDERER! MURDERER!"

The room was packed with reporters from all across America, every one of them waiting for that single moment.

A side door opened.

Bob Campbell walked out.

He was alone as he walked to the podium.

He looked as if he had aged twenty years overnight.

His once-straight back was stooped, his gait unsteady.

The face that had once always worn a confident smile was now etched with deep wrinkles and an ashen pallor.

He stood behind the podium, his hands gripping the edges to support his faltering body.

He raised his head, his gaze sweeping over the greedy camera lenses below, over the pens poised to record the moment of his downfall.

The press hall fell silent.

"My fellow countrymen."

Campbell began to speak.

His voice was soft and slow.

"Citizens of Pennsylvania."

"For half a century, I have been proud to serve this great land."

"I was born in Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia, and grew up by the coal mines of Scranton. I have witnessed this state’s glory, and I have watched it through its growing pains."

Campbell’s gaze seemed to lose focus, as if he were looking past the cameras and into distant memories.

"I remember the bustling barges on the Monongahela River and the ceaseless glow of the Bethlehem Steel Plant. I remember the miners with their coal-dusted faces and the farmers toiling in their fields."

"I love every inch of this land."

"I love every river, every mountain, and every family that wakes at dawn to strive for a better life."

"I once swore to protect all of this."

"I tried to use moderate means to bridge divides, to promote progress, and to allow everyone to live a decent life."

Campbell paused.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he suppressed some emotion threatening to erupt.

"But."

"I must admit."

"The current situation has escalated beyond my personal abilities."

"The world has changed."

"Anger has replaced reason, confrontation has replaced compromise, and hatred has replaced tolerance."

"Last night’s tragedy is the greatest pain of my professional career."

"Regardless of the cause, regardless of the investigation’s findings, as Governor, I must take responsibility."

"I cannot allow Pennsylvania to fall into deeper division."

"I cannot watch my home state turn into a violent battleground."

"To allow the wounds to begin healing, to allow order to be restored."

Campbell took a deep breath.

He straightened his spine and, with the last of his strength, announced his decision.

"I have decided to resign from the office of Governor of Pennsylvania."

"Effective immediately."

Flashbulbs flickered madly, and the sound of camera shutters became a continuous roar.

Campbell didn’t stop. He continued, "As Benjamin Franklin said outside Independence Hall in Philadelphia."

"’A republic, if you can keep it.’"

"I did my best."

"I used all my wisdom, all my patience, all my love."

"But I could not keep it."

"Now, I pass the torch to the next generation."

"To those who are younger, tougher, and perhaps better understand the rules of this new era."

"I pray they can do better than I did."

"I pray they will treat this land and its people with kindness."

Campbell’s eyes grew moist.

"Pennsylvania."

"Pennsylvania."

He whispered the name twice.

It was a whisper of infinite fondness, and of infinite regret.

Having said his piece, he slowly turned around.

He answered none of the reporters’ questions, nor did he accept any entreaties to stay.

With his back to the cameras, he walked with heavy steps toward the shadows of the side door.

His stooped, solitary figure looked utterly desolate.

As that door closed, an era came to an end.

He walked into the annals of history.

And upon the ruins he left behind, a new era was dawning—an era of populism, of radicalism, of brutal, unchecked growth.

...

「City Hall, the Mayor’s Office.」

Leo Wallace turned off the television.

The room was quiet, save for the low hum of the air conditioner.

Ethan stood to the side, staring at the screen as it went dark, and let out a long breath.

"It’s over," Ethan said. "Campbell resigned."

"Yes, it’s over."

Leo leaned back in his chair.

He looked out the window.

The behemoth that had once stood in their way, the seemingly unshakeable Governor, had fallen just like that.

Pushed off a cliff, step by step, by their schemes, by public opinion, by the media.

Roosevelt’s voice echoed in Leo’s mind.

’He was a good man.’

’In another era, a time when gentlemanly conduct was valued, he would have been a respected statesman.’

’A pity he was born in the wrong time.’

’Modern politics has no need for good men.’

Leo nodded.

He didn’t feel the joy of victory, only a grim chill.

Campbell’s fall meant the disappearance of the buffer zone.

Now, it was just him and Monroe.

Leo casually picked up the commemorative medal from his desk—the one that had originally belonged to the Governor’s Mansion—and idly fiddled with it between his fingers.