America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

"No, sir, we do not accept retraction requests... Yes, Mr. Silas is a fictional character, and if you think he resembles you, that is purely... purely coincidental."

After yelling into the microphone, Dorothy practically slumped into her chair, then turned and shouted towards the office area:

"Jansen! Go and deal with those lunatics! Several bankers on Fifth Avenue have jointly requested to speak with our boss, and they want to bring their legal counsel!"

The financial section editor, Jensen, is currently in a peculiar physiological state:

His left hand was trembling violently, frightened by the tycoons, while his right hand was frantically counting the sales reports that had just arrived, excited by the profits.

He paced back and forth in the office lobby like a mad pendulum, finally stopping abruptly in front of Arthur Kennedy's desk.

Arthur was slowly tearing open a bag of cheap black tea and filling his water tank with water from the newspaper office's creaking water heater.

His expression was so serene that the editors around him, who were on the verge of collapse, felt as if he were not in the newspaper office, but in some quiet monastery.

"Janice... take a look at these."

Jensen slammed a stack of reader letters and complaint forms on the table:

"The Honest Man is hot, but I'm about to be cremated too. Just now, the Wall Street Journal said that your Mr. Silas was 'maliciously inciting financial panic,' and they threatened to cut off all our insider market data."

Arthur picked up his teacup and gently blew away the foam on top:

"Editor-in-chief, even if they don't cut off the supply, those stock quotes will soon just show plummeting curves. As for those brokers on Wall Street, shouldn't they be busy mortgaging their pants for bread right now? They don't have time to sue us!"

Jason was speechless.

He looked at Arthur, a young man not yet twenty years old who had originally been just an assistant editor, who now exuded a calmness that instilled fear in him.

Just then, the door to the boss's office was pushed open, and William Hearst's tall and imposing figure appeared in the doorway.

His gaze swept across the chaotic hall before finally settling on Arthur.

"Jansen," Hearst began.

"Yes, Mr. Hearst." Jason instinctively stood at attention, like a soldier being checked on.

"Don't bother with those bankers' legal counsel. Tell them that if they want to go to court, my legal team is so bored they're practically rotting away, and they're just looking for a place to practice their skills."

Hearst walked over to Arthur and patted him firmly on the shoulder.

"Arthur, I've read your article three times."

Arthur gave a slight bow: "I hope I haven't delayed your afternoon tea, sir."

"I've been delayed." Hearst let out a hearty laugh.

"I laughed so hard I spilled coffee on my favorite Persian rug. Those Wall Street ostriches must be wishing they could hang you from a lamppost right now."

Hearst turned around, faced all the trembling editors, and suddenly waved his hand, as if he were wielding a scepter to command an army.

He looked at his personal secretary and issued an order that would shake the entire American media industry:

"Notify the editorial offices in Chicago, San Francisco, Boston, and Los Angeles. Use our independent telegraph lines; I want this article on the front page of all Hearst newspapers within three hours."

The secretary paused for a moment, then asked, "Sir, all the newspapers? Including those tabloids that don't usually publish financial commentary?"

"Yes, all of them!" Hearst slammed his fist on the table, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"From logging camps in Maine to orchards in California, I want every American to know about 'Mr. Silas' and the ugly side of this kind of person."

The next moment, a series of knocking sounds began to come from the direction of the telegraph room.

Those were bullets called "Honest Man," which were traveling along the cable that stretched across North America, declaring war on every city just as dusk was falling.

This is not just a repost; it's a comprehensive, textbook-level media campaign.

Hearst even personally called the editor of the Chicago Herald, ordering them to provide the most satirical illustrations for "Mr. Silas":

A man in a suit and tie is sitting on the bow of a sinking ship, trying to examine a non-existent gold mine in the seawater with a magnifying glass.

Arthur sat in the center of the commotion, watching his colleagues caught up in the frenzy, and a complex sense of exhilaration welled up inside him.

In his past life, he worked cautiously in an internet company, writing code and enduring his boss's every whim for a few thousand dollars in performance-based pay.

And now, a few words he casually threw out are stirring up a storm in the hearts of tens of millions of people through the largest propaganda machine of this era.

Editor-in-Chief Jensen had recovered from his earlier fear. He fawned over Hearst like a lackey and asked obsequiously:

"Sir, should we give Mr. Arthur Kennedy... oh no, should we give 'The Honest Man' a more prestigious title? Like 'The Conscience of Wall Street'?"

"No."

Hearst waved his hand and looked at Arthur.

"Let's call him 'The Honest Man on Wall Street.' The name itself is the biggest mockery of this era."

Hearst looked at Arthur again, lowering his voice, his tone tinged with a hint of probing:

"Arthur, how many more of these 'bullets' have you prepared? Readers across the country are eagerly awaiting your next article."

Arthur put down his teacup, his clear yet sharp eyes staring directly at the media mogul.

"Mr. Silas's story has only just begun to tell how he kept his bow tie neat amidst the ruins."

Arthur smiled slightly: "The following content will be used to write about those who want to give the ruins a beautiful name. After all, if the audience wants to see a circus, we'll have to invite those lions who lead the way through the fire hoops onto the stage as well."

Hearst paused for a moment, then burst into an even louder laugh, which made the office windows tremble slightly.

"Did you hear that, Jason? From this day forward, Arthur Kennedy is no longer part of your financial section. He doesn't need to report to you; he only needs to report to me, and to this crazy era!"

When Arthur sat back down at his typewriter, he sensed that the way the entire editorial department looked at him had completely changed.

If his previous book, "Van Dyke's Stock Market Diary," only made him a lucky genius, his fame was limited to a small group of people.

The current "nationwide telegram" has directly put him in the spotlight of national public opinion.

The senior editors, who were whispering about his "experience" and "writing style," were now secretly figuring out how to get involved with him, even if it was just to help him change the ribbon on his typewriter.