America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Meanwhile, on a sycamore-shaded street in Brooklyn, Arthur Kennedy was walking in the cool morning breeze.

His intuition told him that, due to the explosive popularity of "Mr. Silas," he was now in a situation like a child carrying a gold brick walking through a slum.

While Hearst can offer temporary refuge, the promises of such powerful figures often fluctuate more than stock prices on Wall Street.

If Wall Street, or some bigwig, becomes dissatisfied with him, it's hard to say how long Hearst's protection will last.

Given his current situation, he has almost no power to fight back.

Just in case, he needs to observe in advance where he should go next if he has to leave The New York Daily News someday.

He stopped in front of an old, three-story, Victorian-style red brick building. A somewhat faded sign hung on the roof:

The New York Herald.

This was the small newspaper he had seen while sorting through his emails, and it shared the same name as his wealthy and beautiful classmate.

Pushing open the slightly heavy oak door, Arthur was greeted not by the usual hustle and bustle of the newspaper office, but by an almost desolate tranquility.

He walked down the empty corridor toward the editor-in-chief's office, the door ajar.

Arthur gently pushed open the door, and in that instant, he felt as if he had stepped into a dimension completely isolated from the noisy, dirty New York outside.

The dappled sunlight streaming through the window fell on the girl behind the desk.

That's Isabella Harrison.

Arthur's classmate at New York University. In his memory, Isabella always sat in the corner of the last row of the classroom, like a white vine growing in the shadows.

At this moment, she is buried in a pile of messy financial statements.

She wore a long black silk dress of excellent quality, and the part of her neck exposed at the neckline was breathtakingly white against the black fabric, like the purest first snow in the Arctic, with an almost transparent texture.

Perhaps because she was overthinking, a faint smear of black ink somehow got on the tip of her nose.

"Excuse me..." Arthur asked softly.

"what!"

Isabella flinched, like a startled fawn.

She looked up in a panic, her large, clear brown eyes, like amber, were initially filled with confusion upon seeing Arthur, then with an unbelievable surprise and a sense of unease.

"Arthur... Kennedy?"

She stood up abruptly, and because she moved too quickly, her knee accidentally hit the drawer, causing her to let out a soft hiss in pain, and her eyes instantly welled up with a thin layer of mist.

Ignoring the pain, she instinctively hid her hands behind her back, nervously twisting the hem of her skirt, a blush quickly spreading across her cheeks.

Arthur was also somewhat surprised. It turned out that this was really his classmate, the young lady. How could she be working at such a small newspaper?

"Long time no see, Miss Harrison. I saw your job posting. If you're still open, I thought I might be able to offer some advice?" Arthur gave a gentle smile.

"Oh...please come in, Arthur."

Isabella lowered her head, her voice barely audible. Her thick eyelashes trembled nervously, casting two shadows on her eyelids.

She was known as a "socially awkward" person in school.

Although she can logically and refute her opponents until they are speechless in mock court, as soon as she steps off the stage, she will turn back into the girl who blushes even when talking to boys.

"What happened here? This job posting..." Arthur looked around at the empty surroundings.

Isabella's eyes quickly dimmed.

She bit her lip, her pearly white teeth leaving a faint mark on her red lips, her voice trembling slightly with barely suppressed emotion:

"My father and brother... died last month in the Leviathan disaster on their way to Europe. Those greedy editors and reporters were poached by the big newspapers in Manhattan before the funerals were even over."

Arthur panicked and quickly reassured him, "I'm sorry, I didn't know something happened at your home. Are you alright? I have some money here, you can take it."

She raised her head, her eyes filled with a heartbreaking stubbornness.

At this moment, Isabella had shed the aloofness she displayed in law school, revealing a sense of helplessness after such a dramatic change.

Her fair, jade-like fingertips turned bluish from the effort she was putting in; she was desperately trying to maintain her dignity.

"Thank you for your kindness, Arthur. I'm financially okay. But I don't know how to run a newspaper, and I don't want their hard work to just disappear."

Arthur stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic accounts on the table.

He discovered that although the newspaper had been emptied of its staff, the trust fund left by her father and the top-notch printing equipment still constituted an astonishing fortune.

He couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed about what he had just said.

However, in the hands of Isabella, a socially awkward law student and a model student, this wealth was like a piece of meat placed in front of a pack of wolves.

"Miss Harrison, if you don't mind, I can introduce you to some reliable typesetters, or help you contact some reputable freelance journalists."

Arthur pulled out a chair and sat down, maintaining what he considered a comfortable social distance.

"After all, to let such a fine printing press gather dust is a crime against civilization."

Isabella stared at him blankly, and then a bright smile bloomed on her almost translucent white face.

"Really? Arthur, I... I haven't known who to ask for help. The people who come for interviews always have a look in their eyes that scares me, as if they're not there to find a job, but to take away these machines."

She looked at Arthur with an almost blind trust in her eyes. For someone like her, who was deeply mired in social anxiety, the presence of an "acquaintance" like Arthur was like a safe haven in a storm.

"Don't worry, I'll find you a few 'honest men'."

Arthur made a joke, but in his heart he was considering another possibility.

In this office filled with the smell of ink and old wood, Arthur looked at the trembling, snow-white New York rose.

He did not rush to explain his situation.

He knew it wasn't the right time yet. But this kind of "timely help" was more solid than any contract.

If Wall Street does launch a counterattack, Brooklyn, this "private territory" protected by high walls and trust funds, might become his best battleground.

Meanwhile, Isabella was frantically trying to pour Arthur a cup of tea, but accidentally knocked over the pen holder.

She gasped in surprise, her face turning as red as a ripe apple, and she squatted down, frantically picking up the pen.

As Arthur watched her clumsy yet earnest expression, the corners of his mouth unconsciously turned up slightly.

In this crumbling New York, there seems to be one place that remains clean and gentle.