I searched and fought in America.

Chief Brown was stunned.

The deputy mayor's expression changed from ashen to surprised.

The officials on the stage looked at each other, wondering why this script was so wrong.

Rosen continued:

"That day in the sewers, I saw those people. They were people abandoned by this world. They had no houses to live in, no food to eat, and were captured by cults to be sacrificed. Those beasts carved words on their bodies with knives."

His voice began to rise and fall:

"When I look at them, I'm reminded of myself when I was a child."

"I think if no one had saved me back then, I would have died on the street long ago. If my uncle hadn't taken me in, I would have become an unknown corpse long ago."

He took a deep breath:

"So when the explosion was about to happen, I didn't think too much. I only knew that I couldn't ignore these people because this country taught me to be grateful, and the kindness of this society allowed me to live to this day. Now, it's my turn to repay them."

The entire room fell silent.

Then--

"Whoosh whoosh whoosh!"

Thunderous applause!

Director Brown stared blankly at the reporters below the stage who were clapping enthusiastically, and it took him a long time to come back to his senses.

He turned his head and exchanged a glance with the deputy mayor.

The two saw the same thing in each other's eyes—

ecstasy.

This Chinese person is so good at talking!

Instead of smearing the government, he attributed all the credit to "the country's education" and "the kindness of society"!

He said he was grateful, that the government gave him subsidies, and that the police protected his safety—it was even more perfect than the script they wrote themselves!

The deputy mayor finally showed his first genuine smile of the day.

Chief Brown also breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back in his chair.

One by one, the officials on the stage regained their color.

In the press section below the stage, the New York Times reporter's face was stiff.

Looking at the eloquent Chinese speaker on stage and at his colleagues clapping enthusiastically around him, he suddenly realized something.

He did not have a background check.

This person appeared so suddenly that he had no idea about their background.

An orphan? An uncle of a retired veteran? A government subsidy? He couldn't verify a single one of these things.

He could only watch helplessly as this Chinese-American turned what should have been a press conference detrimental to the government into an awards ceremony.

He was not reconciled.

"Mr. Rosen!" He stood up again, holding the microphone high.

"You just said that you were saved by government subsidies, so I'd like to ask—in your Ronnie neighborhood, the police force has been reduced by 40% over the past five years. What are your thoughts on this? Do you think the government's care for the slums is really as effective as you say?"

Rosen looked at him, his eyes calm.

"Sir reporter," he said, "I don't know the data you mentioned. All I know is that without government relief, I would have starved to death long ago, and without police patrols, my street would have been taken over by gangs long ago."

He paused, a slight smile playing on his lips:

"Of course, if you insist on focusing on those figures, I suggest you interview the Houston Finance Department. I'm just a junk collector; I can't possibly understand those accounts."

A low chuckle rippled through the audience.

After all, if you want to get information from someone's department that's detrimental to them, that's simply a pipe dream. You'd be lucky if they didn't retaliate.

The reporter's face stiffened even more.

He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but his colleague next to him tugged at his sleeve and whispered, "Alright, stop asking."

He gritted his teeth and finally sat down.

Rosen stood on the stage, his gaze sweeping across the entire audience.

He watched the undisguised joy on the faces of the officials, watched the reporters writing furiously, and watched the New York Times reporter's frustrated expression.

He knew that the performance was a success.

From then on, his name would be known throughout Texas, and even throughout the United States.

And those officials, whether they liked it or not, had been placed in a position by him—a position where they had to be grateful to him and repay him.

Because he spoke well of the people of the whole country on their behalf.

However, just thinking about what he had said made Rosen feel nauseous. If he weren't so weak right now, he would have fucking shot all of them.

A bunch of aimless people.

He turned around and nodded slightly to Mihir below the stage.

Michel sat in the corner, watching this scene with a complex expression.

Even more people.

Meanwhile, in the mayor's office.

Thomas Roll sat in front of his computer, watching the live stream, his facial expressions going through a thrilling rollercoaster.

From ashen-faced, to surprised, to incredulous, and then...

"Good! Good! Good!"

He slammed his hand on the table, stood up, and said "good" three times, his face beaming with joy.

"Michael! Michael, that kid, did a fantastic job!"

He turned to look at his secretary beside him, his hands trembling with excitement:

"Get Michael in my sights! Tell him the position of deputy police chief is his! No, not only that, tell him to come directly to me if he needs anything from now on!"

The secretary nodded repeatedly and jogged out to make a phone call.

Thomas sat back down in his chair, watching the young Chinese man leaving the screen, and found him increasingly pleasing to the eye.

"Interesting," he muttered to himself, "a gang leader who can talk better than our professional PR teams..."

He picked up the coffee on the table, took a sip, and suddenly smiled.

"Rosen, right? I'll remember that name."

Press conference room.

Rosen retreated backstage and had just stepped into the corridor when someone stopped him.

It was that young mother.

She stood before him, holding her child, her eyes red-rimmed, her lips moving but unable to utter a word.

Rosen looked at her, paused for a second, then reached out and gently patted the child's forehead.

"Take good care of yourself and get well soon," he said. "Things will get better from now on."

The mother nodded frantically, and tears finally streamed down her face.

The old man with the broken leg also came over. He stood a few steps away, leaning on his cane, looking at Rosen, and bowed deeply.

Rosen stepped forward and helped him up:

"Grandpa, please don't do that."

The old man raised his head and looked at him, something flickering in his cloudy eyes.

“Mr. Rosen,” he said, his voice hoarse, “I heard everything you said. You said you were expressing gratitude, that you were giving back, but this old man knows you don’t need to do that at all.”

He paused:

"You can leave at all; you can completely ignore us."

"But you didn't."

The old man looked at him with a complicated expression:

"So, no matter what you say, we know in our hearts that you are our benefactor."

Rosen remained silent for a long time.

Then he smiled and gently patted the old man's shoulder:

"It's good to be alive; as long as you're alive, there's hope."

The old man nodded emphatically.

Rosen turned around and walked towards the end of the corridor.

Morris was waiting for him there.

"Father," Maurice approached, lowering his voice, "what you just said..."

Rosen glanced at him.

Morris immediately shut up.

Rosen did not explain, he only said:

"Let's go back."

The two walked out of the hospital; it was already late at night.

Across the street, several reporters who hadn't left were still squatting. When they saw Rosen come out, they immediately raised their cameras.

The flash went off.

Rosen didn't stop walking; he simply turned his head slightly and nodded at the camera.

Then I opened the car door and got in.

The car slowly drove away.

Rosen leaned back in his chair, watching the streetlights flash by outside the window, and suddenly smiled.

Morris glanced at him in the rearview mirror and asked cautiously:

"Father, what are you laughing at?"

Rosen did not answer.

He just stared out the window, the smile on his lips slowly deepening.

What are you laughing at?

Laugh at those people.

I laughed at that New York Times reporter who racked his brains trying to dig a trap, only to be shut down by his single sentence.

Those Houston officials, who were initially furious, ended up all smiles.

The mayor is probably in his office right now, slamming his fist on the table and shouting "Good!"

They thought he was a pawn.

Little did they know that from the moment he uttered his first words, he was a chess player.

Under the spotlight, everyone is performing.

The only difference is—

Some people put on a show for others.

Some people put on a show for everyone.

---

Thank you to toat for the 3 monthly tickets!

Thank you, King of Sweet Talk, for the monthly ticket!

---

My darlings, we've already had one round of competition, and it's almost past the new book release period. I'm starting to feel a bit discouraged. So, my darlings, if you can, could you please vote for me with some monthly tickets? I need your support.