Roosevelt's voice echoed in Leo's mind, tinged with a knowing chuckle.
"A classic political maneuver, my boy. If they can't beat you on the battlefield, they'll invite you into their banquet hall. Then they'll drown you in a swamp of bureaucracy with a handsome salary, excellent benefits, and endless, meaningless paperwork."
"By the time you come to your senses one day, you'll find you've forgotten why you started fighting in the first place, because you'll have become one of them."
A chill ran down Leo's spine.
What Roosevelt described was the very trap he had nearly walked into.
"So, should I call him right now and explicitly turn down the job?" Leo asked.
"No." Roosevelt's answer surprised him. "A direct refusal is something only cowards and fools would do. It will only make you look like a naive idealist who can't do anything but shout slogans."
"A true politician never lets an opportunity go to waste. You must learn to turn the poison your enemy hands you into a tonic that nourishes you."
"You must learn to use their system, to turn their carefully laid traps into the first step on our ladder to the pinnacle of power."
Leo was a little confused.
"I don't understand."
"Then let me use my own story to teach you your first lesson in politics."
As Roosevelt's voice faded, the image of the apartment vanished from Leo's sight.
He was once again pulled into that familiar vortex of consciousness.
After a brief sensation of weightlessness, Leo's consciousness regained its focus.
He found himself standing in the grand, gloomy hall of a massive building.
Light struggled through the high, arched windows, casting mottled patterns on the floor.
The air was thick with a complex odor.
It was a mixture of fine cigar smoke, rain-dampened wool coats, and aged whiskey wafting from some unseen room.
It was the very scent of power.
Towering marble columns supported the vaulted ceiling, their shadows making the hall seem even deeper.
Well-dressed men gathered in twos and threes in the shadows. They moved with purpose, their leather shoes echoing crisply on the marble floor.
They spoke in low voices, leaning forward and shielding their mouths with their hands, exchanging information only they could understand and looks of tacit agreement.
This was the New York State Capitol, a hunting ground built on legal statutes and secret deals.
Leo's perspective soon locked onto a young man who seemed out of place.
He was tall, over six feet, with an upright posture, lacking the beer bellies and slightly stooped backs of the older politicians.
He wore a well-tailored tweed jacket and a bow tie, a long ivory cigarette holder clenched in his mouth.
His stride was light and confident, his face bearing the unique expression of the elite class fresh out of Harvard—a mixture of naivete and arrogance.
Leo recognized him.
It was Franklin Delano Roosevelt, twenty-eight years old.
A New York State Senator who had just stepped out from his family's estate in the Hudson River Valley and into the world of politics.
At this time, he could still walk steadily on his own two legs.
"My first step was to enter the system and build a reputation."
Roosevelt's resonant voice-over sounded in Leo's consciousness.
"Back then, the New York State Assembly was a club for the Republicans. As for us in the Democratic Party, we were firmly in the grip of a vast, corrupt machine called the 'Tammany Association.'"
"It was an entrenched interest group dominated by politicians of Irish descent. Their tentacles stretched from the foremen counting votes on the New York City docks all the way to the Speaker's Office in the State Assembly. Everyone answered to their boss, a man named Charles Murphy."
Leo's perspective followed the young Roosevelt down a long corridor.
The walls on both sides of the corridor were lined with portraits of former governors.
Roosevelt pushed open a heavy oak door and walked into a smoke-filled caucus room.
It was packed with people, most of them older men.
They were heavyset, their faces ruddy from alcohol and fine food.
They spoke in loud voices, periodically erupting in coarse laughter. Their every gesture carried the slick arrogance unique to old-school politicians.
These were the men of the Tammany Association.
In the seat of honor at the head of the room sat a man who was a stark contrast to his surroundings.
He too was heavyset, but his face was expressionless, his eyes somber.
This was Charles Murphy, the absolute dictator of the Tammany Association, known as "Silent Charlie."
He rarely spoke, merely sitting there quietly, observing everyone in the room with his small eyes.
But everyone knew that his every glance could decide whether a politician's career in that room continued or came to an end.
At this moment, his cold gaze was fixed on that audacious young man, Roosevelt.
The meeting had only one item on the agenda.
To select the Democratic Party candidate to represent New York in the Federal Senate.
The Tammany Association had already handpicked their man for the job.
A banker named William Heen, a man with close ties to Wall Street.
Today's meeting was merely a formality.
A ritual to display Boss Murphy's authority to all.
Just as Murphy was about to announce the result, the young Roosevelt stood up.
He cleared his throat, the crisp sound jarring in the room.
He delivered a passionate, fiery speech.
He cited the principles of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, denouncing the backroom politics and moneyed deals of the Tammany Association.
He called for the restoration of democratic processes within the party, demanding an open, transparent election free from manipulation.
The more he spoke, the louder the jeers in the caucus room grew.
The old politicians exchanged contemptuous glances.
They looked at this fledgling rich boy as if he were a lamb that had just wandered into a slaughterhouse, oblivious to its fate.
When Roosevelt finished his impassioned speech, a brief silence fell over the room.
It was followed by a louder, undisguised roar of laughter.
Charles Murphy didn't even bother to look at him directly.
He simply muttered to his most capable subordinate, a senator named Tim Sullivan.
"The children have had their fun. Let's start the vote."
The result was no surprise.
The Tammany Association's candidate, Heen, won by an overwhelming majority.
Roosevelt and the few other newcomers—reformist legislators who dared to support him—suffered a crushing defeat.
"In the vote, we were unquestionably defeated." Roosevelt's voice-over returned, with no hint of frustration.
"But I won something far more important than a single vote."
The heavy oak door of the caucus room was pushed open.
Outside, a crowd of reporters from New York's major newspapers had gathered.
They didn't interview the triumphant banker, Heen, who was basking in his victory.
Instead, they aimed all their cameras, flashes, and microphones at the young man who had just been soundly defeated—Roosevelt.
"Mr. Roosevelt, what are your plans now?" a reporter shouted.
"How much longer do you think the Tammany Association's rule over the Democratic Party can last?" another reporter pressed.
Roosevelt straightened his bow tie. His expression was weary, but his eyes were bright.
He faced the cameras and said with a smile,
"Gentlemen, this was only the first round. The fight has just begun."
「The next day.」
Every newspaper in New York ran the same front-page headline.
A young senator of noble birth and boundless promise had openly launched a suicidal charge against the corrupt behemoth that had dominated New York politics for decades—the Tammany Association.
He was branded with a label.
A label that would follow him for the rest of his life and ultimately carry him to the pinnacle of power.
—Reformer.