This story is purely fictional, brothers, please don't take it seriously!
One must view the despicable European and American society with a critical eye…
"Pfft—"
A top-grade Cuban cigar was forcefully extinguished in a crystal ashtray etched with the Roosevelt family crest—an eagle's claw grasping the globe, entwined with thorns and dollar signs.
The expensive cigar instantly twisted and deformed, a wisp of unwilling blue smoke struggling in vain, then swallowed by the heavy air in the study, as if cast from molten gold and cold dread.
"Ethan,"
Howard Roosevelt suddenly looked up, his grey-blue pupils like blades tempered with ice and molten gold, reflecting a nearly tangible sharpness under the pale, cold light of the chandelier, capable of cutting through lies, fixed on the young man across the desk.
His voice was as deep as an echo in the subway tunnels deep beneath Manhattan, containing enough energy to tear through pretense and hypocrisy. "You just said… that reckless brat from the Bush family personally mentioned Project Sirius?"
"Yes, Father.
Every syllable is seared into my ears."
Ethan Roosevelt stood ramrod straight, like a javelin piercing through the mist of deceit, deeply embedded in the priceless Persian rug, its patterns seemingly flowing with dark red blood-gold.
His overly calm, almost actuary-like, unruffled face contrasted sharply with the stormy thunder in his father's eyes, cutting them into two diametrically opposed, yet equally dangerous, universes.
He clearly recounted, precisely capturing and amplifying the tone, a mix of Texan arrogance and doomsday prophecy: "Listen, brother!
Project Sirius is ready, the flood of capital has shifted, the action teams have sharpened their claws, just waiting for the day of sacrifice to ignite as scheduled!
Let us welcome the anthem of the new era together!
With screams and ashes as a ladder, paving the way for the chosen ones…"
"Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!!"
Howard erupted like an ignited volcano, rising abruptly from the crimson velvet "throne"—carved from a single piece of African ebony, symbolizing the family's supreme glory of yesteryear, but now resembling a sarcastic tombstone.
His heavy footsteps slammed onto the mirror-smooth Italian Carrara white marble floor, producing a dull thud like the bell of a Wall Street crash.
"These mad dogs with their brains filled with cheap crude oil and sulfurous fire!
What exactly do they want to do?!
Do they really think that by wearing the human skin of petrodollars and holding blood sacrifices in the shadows of the Masonic Lodge, they can forever sit on the throne at the pinnacle of the world?
They are simply foolish donkeys digging their own graves!"
September 1, 2001, 7:15 PM.
820 Park Avenue, New York.
This steel fortress, blending the stark sharpness of Art Deco with the timeless majesty of classicism, now resembled a dormant leviathan, holding its breath before a coming storm.
Outside, Manhattan's lights burned wildly, weaving a false eternal galaxy, the Empire State Building's spire piercing the unfathomable night sky, yet exuding a cold, dead silence, as if gazed upon by Death itself.
Howard Roosevelt—the current chairman of the New York State Economic Development Oversight Committee;
He was also the absolute scepter, meticulously forged by the Franklin faction in the new century's power landscape, cloaked in a gentle exterior.
Theoretically, from the nerve center of Wall Street's billions of dollars in capital flow per second, to the throat ports on the East Coast that handle global cargo, from the runways of JFK Airport connecting the world, to the core nodes of the power and water grids maintaining the city's lifeline… all were supposed to bow to his will.
New York, as the tirelessly beating heart of this planet, with every pulsation, flowed the blood of money, information, and power.
And Howard Roosevelt was the man with his fingertips on the aorta of this heart.
However, if Project Sirius were successfully implemented, a Sword of Damocles might very well hang over the head of this favored son of heaven.
Even a slight mishandling could end his brilliant political career, and even the remaining reputation of the Roosevelt family.
Facing his father's towering rage, Ethan, who had just experienced an incredible temporal Crossing , remained excessively calm.
As if he had never been scorched in the slightest.
Since half a month ago, when he inexplicably fell from the future into this fragile node at the beginning of the millennium, he had been constantly thinking about how to perfectly warn the family about 9/11.
As a person from later generations, he was all too aware of the immense opportunities brought by the collapse of the Twin Towers.
It could even be called the opening chapter of the subversion of the world power structure, and the common source of countless storms over the next two decades.
If the Roosevelts could seize the initiative before this upheaval… the profits they would reap would be immeasurable.
It might even help them break through all shackles and return to the pinnacle of power.
Of course, opportunity and risk coexist.
How to make an ancient, deeply rooted, suspicious, and cautious family believe the astonishing prediction made by their young descendant was the first major challenge facing Ethan!
If handled improperly, he would not be met with family gratitude, but with endless questioning and cold scrutiny.
Sometimes he considered remaining silent;
But while that would be safe, it would also mean missing the greatest leverage to change destiny.
In this primitive jungle of America, which believes in "survival of the fittest," without the shade of a towering family tree, even if he surpassed Musk in achievement, he would likely be torn apart by the surrounding wolves.
Reborn, he yearned for fame, power, and ultimate enjoyment more than anyone, and the cornerstone of all this was the strength of the surname behind him.
After much deliberation, he still chose to be completely honest, betting everything on it.
He firmly believed that the Bush family and their allies could not completely erase the traces of "Project Sirius."
As long as the sleeping lion of the Roosevelt family was awakened, the truth would eventually surface.
To increase his leverage, two days ago, he had specifically used his cousin Jeffrey William Harriman's connections to delve into the core of a gathering of Texas tycoon offspring.
His purpose was to play a "very pleasant conversation" charade with Prescott, providing a basis for today's revelation of fatal information he had personally heard.
"Oh, my dear Howard…"
Just then, a woman's voice, like the finest velvet gliding over a frozen lake, with a chilling languor and soul-piercing power, came from outside the study's open, massive oak door, carved with allegories of war and peace.
Father and son simultaneously turned their heads to look.
Victoria Harriman Roosevelt was seen slowly descending from the top of the spiral staircase.
Her posture was as composed as a goddess surveying the mortal realm.
Her silver-grey Chanel haute couture suit flowed with a moonlight-like sheen, perfectly outlining curves of strength and elegance.
Her brilliant golden hair was styled into a conqueror's crown, revealing a long and deadly swan-like neck.
A deep emerald brooch, like a cosmic singularity, was pinned over her heart on her left chest, matching the one on her husband's left ring finger, silently proclaiming the supreme connection of bloodlines and the eternal transmission of power.
"Mom."