I bought a prison in the United States.

This is a typical Tulsa story.

Prosperity, decline, and then some who refuse to leave try to rebuild something from the ruins.

Such stories are playing out simultaneously in countless cities across the Rust Belt of America.

Detroit, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Buffalo...

Cities that once prospered because of manufacturing are experiencing a slow and painful decline that shows no end in sight.

Tulsa survived a few years longer than them because it had oil.

But oil prices are also declining.

In 1980, oil was $35 a barrel; now it's $28 a barrel, and it's still falling.

Lin Ge parked his car in the parking lot opposite the Mayo Hotel and took one last look at himself in the rearview mirror.

Then he pushed open the car door and walked toward the revolving brass gate.

The receptionist was a Black man in his sixties, wearing a crisp red uniform with gold buttons that gleamed in the sunlight.

His hair was gray, but he combed it meticulously, and the wrinkles on his face were as deep as if they had been carved by a knife.

He seems to have been working here for many years; judging from his age and posture, he may have been here since the oil boom.

Good afternoon, sir.

He opened the brass door, his voice carrying a trained politeness, devoid of any personal bias.

His gaze lingered on Lingo's suit for less than half a second before shifting away.

The movement was so fast it was almost imperceptible, but Lingo noticed it.

After a period of exploration, he has been able to use his abilities relatively stably.

This morning I saw the word "Relief" floating above Betty's head.

The doorman's head was adorned with "professional indifference" and a deeper, suppressed "weariness."

The ceiling of the hall is at least four stories high.

The floor is made of black and white marble, arranged in a complex geometric pattern.

Brass wall lamps are embedded in the wall, with milky white glass shades that emit a warm yellow light.

Directly opposite is a huge staircase with carved cast iron handrails and steps covered with a deep red carpet.

A huge oil painting hangs above the staircase, depicting Tulsa in the 1920s.

Men in suits and women in elegant long dresses are depicted against a backdrop of towering oil derricks and locomotives billowing black smoke.

This is how Tulsa envisioned its future during its prosperous era.

People in that era always believed that oil would never run out, stocks would always rise, and next year would always be better than this year.

They built the hotel with marble and brass, and painted angels on the dome, because they believed Tulsa would become the next Chicago, the next New York, the next great city that would never fade.

Many families used their life savings to buy stocks and bonds, only to be wiped out when the Great Depression hit.

This is the true story.

Ringo never denied the prosperity of America, but he had to admit that everyone who tries to pursue the American Dream will eventually experience a moment of disillusionment and awakening.

More than sixty years have passed, and the oil is still being extracted, but the profits are getting thinner and thinner.

Stock prices fluctuate.

Next year will not always be better than this year.

Marble, brass, angels...

The prosperity and decline of capitalism ultimately leave behind these things.

Stone and metal last longer than human faith.

Lin Ge walked through the hall and headed towards the registration desk.

Behind the registration desk stood two young women in dark blue suits, their hair styled in the high, voluminous style popular in the 1980s, and their makeup as exquisite as the GG portraits on a department store cosmetics counter.

The table in front of them was covered with a white tablecloth, and rows of handwritten nameplates were laid out.

"Hello, may I ask who you are...?"

The woman on the left looked up, a standard greeting smile on her face.

Her smile froze slightly when she saw Lingo's suit.

Although it wasn't rude, she still needed to spend extra time processing the message that "this person's attire doesn't quite match the occasion."

"Ringo Chen, Director of McLean County Correctional Center."

Lin Ge placed the invitation on the table.

The woman glanced down at the invitation, then looked up at him.

Her gaze shifted back and forth between his face and the invitation, as if confirming that the name on the invitation matched the person in front of her.

Then she picked one out of the name tags and handed it to him.

"Mr. Chen, your nameplate."

"The cocktail party starts at 5 p.m. in the banquet hall on the third floor, and the dinner party starts at 7 p.m. in the main banquet hall."

"The afternoon forum has already started in the conference hall on the second floor. You may go there now."

Her voice remained professionally polite, but Lin Ge could sense the confusion beneath that politeness.

A Chinese man, dressed in an ill-fitting old suit, represented a prison at the Chamber of Commerce's annual meeting.

These three pieces of information, taken together, were completely beyond the scope of her daily experience.

Lin Ge took the name tag and pinned it to his suit lapel.

The nameplate was made of white plastic, with his name and company name printed on it in black lettering.

Most other people's nameplates are printed with "So-and-so Petroleum Company", "So-and-so Bank", or "So-and-so Real Estate Company".

His shirt was printed with "McLean County Correctional Center".

Lingo optimistically viewed this as a free form of cheating.

The door to the second-floor conference room was half-open, and the buzzing of a microphone and a man's booming voice could be heard from inside.

Lin Ge pushed open the door and went in, finding a seat in the last row.

The conference hall has about two hundred seats, and it was about 70-80% full.

Standing on the stage was a white man in his sixties, wearing a well-tailored dark gray suit, with silver hair combed in a Reagan-style side part.

He looked like an industry expert, pointing at a slide with a laser pointer on the podium:

The chart showing the trend of manufacturing employment in Tulsa from 1970 to 1984 shows a continuously declining curve.

"...As you can see, manufacturing jobs in the Tulsa metropolitan area have decreased by 22% over the past fourteen years."

"This isn't a problem specific to one industry; it's a comprehensive, structural problem!"

"Oil equipment manufacturing, aerospace parts, auto parts, steel processing—every sub-sector is shrinking!"

He turned to the next slide.

A colorful pie chart shows the changing proportions of Tulsa's employment structure.

"At the same time, service sector jobs increased by 15%."

"These include healthcare, education, retail, catering, and legal services."

What does this mean?

"This shows that Tulsa is transforming from a city that 'makes things' into a city that 'serves each other.'"

A low murmur arose from the audience.

Some people nodded, some shook their heads, and some wrote in their notebooks.