The glow of the computer screen was the only source of light in Leo Wallace’s cramped apartment.
Outside the window, Pittsburgh’s sky was forever that same gray, as if stained by steel—as though the last wisp of black smoke from the factories decades ago had still not dispersed.
But at this moment, the color of the email on the screen was even more glaring than the sky outside.
Sender: Federal Student Aid Office
Subject: [Final Overdue Notice] Your Federal Student Loan Account Is Severely Delinquent
In the body of the email, a string of scarlet numbers had been bolded and enlarged.
Total Amount Due: $137,542.89
“One hundred thirty-seven thousand, five hundred forty-two bucks, plus eighty-nine cents.”
Leo read it aloud in a low voice.
He sank deep into the ergonomic chair he had picked up from a secondhand market. The chair let out a weary groan, just like him.
On the bookshelf to the left of his desk, all kinds of books were crammed together.
The blue spine of The Glory and the Dream had been worn pale; the cover of Roosevelt: The Lion and the Fox had curled at the corners from repeated reading. Beside them were squeezed The New Deal Era, History of the American Labor Movement, and a hardcover English edition of Das Kapital.
These were his spiritual sustenance, the entire foundation of his academic world.
And on his right, in a trash can on the verge of overflowing, lay piles of instant pasta containers, microwave pizza boxes, and several crushed empty cans of energy drinks.
Ideals and reality, within this space of less than a square meter, were divided by an invisible abyss.
“I spent four whole years researching, wrote a dissertation of over a hundred thousand words, analyzed how Franklin Delano Roosevelt used political maneuvering and the machinery of the state to pull a great nation out of the mire of the Great Depression...” Leo’s gaze fell back onto that string of scarlet numbers. “...and in the end, I can’t even pull myself out of the mire of student loans.”
He moved the mouse and clicked the “Close” button in the upper right corner of the email.
Then he opened another browser tab—social media platform “X.”
In the real world, he was Leo Wallace, a “failure” one hundred and thirty thousand bucks in debt. But here, he was “New Deal Ghost.”
When he switched into this identity, his eyes—tired from lack of sleep and poor nutrition—instantly became sharp and focused, as if he had changed souls.
On the timeline of his homepage, a verified media deep-dive report had been pushed into the trending topics.
The Washington Post: Omni Corporation’s “Digital Shackles”: Warehouse Workers Monitored by Algorithms.
Omni Corporation, a business empire comparable to a fusion of Amazon and Walmart, took efficiency as its creed and had pushed AI surveillance and strict timekeeping algorithms to the extreme.
In the report, one fired worker said, “Our working hours aren’t calculated by the hour. They’re calculated by the second. You don’t feel like you’re working for a company. You feel like you’re being driven by an invisible machine.”
Leo’s heart was filled with rage.
This was the ultimate form of the “scientific management” theory he had read about in books—a digital plantation cloaked in high-tech garb, rebuilt with fiber optics and code.
His fingers began flying across the keyboard. The historical knowledge and quotations he knew by heart now turned into the sharpest bullets.
@NewDealGhost:
Franklin Roosevelt warned us as early as 1936: “A government, if because of its Constitution, watches one-third of its people ill-fed, ill-clad, ill-housed... then it is not a competent government.”
We are standing in a new Gilded Age.
And Omni Corporation is the most typical “economic royalist” of this era.
#OmniExploitation #DigitalShackles #EconomicRoyalistsOfTheNewEra
The instant he pressed “Post,” it was as though all his indignation and powerlessness were poured out with that single click.
He leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath.
The numbers of likes and reposts began to jump at a visible speed, giving him a faint, illusory sense of satisfaction.
As if his voice really could pierce the walls of this cheap apartment and shake that colossal creature built of capital and algorithms.
His phone buzzed. It was a message from the owner of the café where he worked part-time, urging him to hurry over for the evening shift.
In the instant before closing the door, he subconsciously glanced at his phone screen.
The number of push notifications had already gone from a dozen or so to a bright red “99+.”
......
Pittsburgh’s dawn came with a damp chill.
Leo’s phone had been vibrating beside his pillow all night. That tweet had completely slipped out of his control.
Reposts had broken fifteen thousand, likes had exceeded fifty thousand, and the numbers were still climbing.
His follower count had surged from twenty thousand to fifty thousand. His inbox was stuffed full of media interview requests and messages of support from an internal Omni Corporation employee.
Of course, there was no shortage of abuse either.
“What nonsense are you spouting? Get out of America!” one comment read.
Leo looked at those comments, but there was no excitement in his heart—only an unease that grew stronger and stronger.
He was someone who studied history. He knew that once words condensed into power, they would inevitably provoke an equal and opposite reaction.
With that unease, he walked into the history department building at the University of Pittsburgh.
His doctoral advisor, Professor Davis, had asked to meet him.
“Leo, sit.” Professor Davis sat behind his enormous mahogany desk, wearing a refined gray tweed plaid suit.
“I read the first draft of your dissertation. Your views are incisive. You possess an excellent research mind.” Then his tone shifted. “Precisely because of that, I feel it’s a pity for you to waste your talent on those dusty old papers about Roosevelt’s New Deal.”
He pushed over a beautifully produced brochure. “Take a look at this. The Peterson Institute for Economic Growth. They have an extremely generous grant program—the leading role of the private sector in urban revitalization.”
Leo’s eyes swept over the line of small print at the bottom of the brochure—Primary Donor: Marcus Peterson, Founder of Omni Corporation.
A feeling mixed with nausea and absurdity surged into his chest.
“Professor, isn’t this just Omni Corporation’s corporate mouthpiece?” Leo raised his head and looked directly at his advisor. “You want me to prove the rationality of exploiting workers?”
The smile on Professor Davis’s face faded.
“Leo, don’t be so emotional. Academia is also part of the real world. You need to learn to cooperate with reality, not oppose it. This grant could completely solve your student loan problem.” He paused, then lowered his voice. “Also, I hear you’ve been quite active online recently. Some companies care very much about their public image.”
“Speech on the internet is not without cost, Leo. It will affect your future employment.”
At that moment, Leo felt a chill unlike anything before.
So the ivory tower was no pure land either. The whispers of capital had already seeped into every brick and stone.
“Thank you for your advice, Professor.” Leo stood up and pushed the brochure back. “But I think I still prefer dusty old papers. At least they won’t try to buy me off.”
He did not look again at Professor Davis’s face, which had turned ashen in an instant. He nodded politely, turned, and walked out of the office.
After leaving the building, Leo walked through campus with complicated feelings.
He felt no thrill of victory, only the humiliation of having been offended and a deep exhaustion.
He arrived at the place where he worked part-time—the “Daily Grind” café.
It was now the afternoon rush, and people were coming and going inside the shop.
His manager, a middle-aged man named Dave, was busy behind the counter.
When he saw Leo come in, the smile on Dave’s face looked somewhat unnatural.
“Leo, you’re here.”
“Dave, there sure are a lot of people today,” Leo said as he walked toward the changing room.
“Yeah.” Dave wiped his hands, then hurried over during a gap between customers, pulling him aside and lowering his voice.
“Leo, uh... after your shift today, can you come to my office for a moment?”
Leo saw Dave’s evasive gaze and the difficulty written all over his face.
“Headquarters sent me an email.”
This book has been contracted, so everyone can feel at ease following it~
For review requirements, if some content seems inconsistent with reality, please don’t mind it too much. It absolutely won’t affect the plot.
I will do my utmost to preserve a sense of realism.