Actually, You Were the Prey

"Don't be so nervous, Mr. Hearst. Even if you had put these photos directly on the front page of your newspaper back then, we wouldn't have been afraid. They wouldn't even have affected us in the slightest."

Hearst said nothing, but his expression seemed to demand: What makes you so confident?

"To be frank, I know a thing or two about manipulating public opinion myself."

"When the time comes, it won't be 'the President and the Wall Street pirates linking arms,' nor will it be the President 'begging them for help.' It will be those Wall Street people, on the eve of bank failures and national collapse, kneeling before the President and pleading for him to save them. And out of mercy, the President reluctantly agreed to see them."

"And why did Morgan enter through the back door? Not because the President feared being exposed, but because Morgan himself was afraid of being seen by the public."

"Why did Rockefeller keep his head down? Because he had a guilty conscience. Because he knew he had ruined this country."

"What do you think of those explanations?"

Hearst's face darkened completely.

Manipulating public opinion?

He, Hearst, had ruled the media world with a wave of his hand for thirty years. Countless presidents both loved and hated him, countless politicians had no choice but to bow their heads, and countless rivals had vanished into ashes before him.

And now, a twenty-five-year-old young man was talking to him about manipulating public opinion?

This was an insult!

"You think the public will definitely believe you?"

Feilan laughed, his laughter laced with mockery. "Maybe they wouldn't have before, but now... at worst, we'll toss another log into the White House fireplace, set up microphones for NBC and CBS, and have the President sit by that fireplace again to 'clarify' things for the people across the country."

"When that happens, who do you think the public will believe—us, or you, capitalist?"

Hearst froze.

In that instant, he seemed to have returned to that night.

The night he had sat in his study, listening to laughter drifting in from the streets outside.

The night he had watched helplessly as his newspapers became wastepaper, his influence destroyed by a single voice—the night he had felt fear for the first time.

The Fireside Chat.

Those four words were like four nails driven into his heart.

Roosevelt's voice—the voice that had sat by the fireplace, warm and gentle, as though chatting with family.

It was a kind of voice he had never heard in all his decades of dominating the media world.

Because it was not a voice that newspapers could manufacture.

It was trust.

In thirteen minutes, Roosevelt had built something Hearst had failed to build in thirty years.

And now, this young man was telling him: if necessary, they could do it again.

Do it again, and Roosevelt would sit by the fireplace, using that warm, reassuring voice to tell the public that the photos were fake, the reports were fake, and those trying to sow discord were enemies.

And the public—

The public would believe him.

Because the Emergency Banking Act had kept their savings safe.

Because the banks had truly reopened.

Because the voice by the fireplace had fulfilled its previous promises.

A chill rose from the base of Hearst's spine. He felt that he had been far too careless—perhaps even foolish.

He raised his head and looked at the young man before him, at those eyes so calm they were nearly cruel, and suddenly realized something.

From the moment this man had entered the living room, he had been in control of everything.

He had rejected Hearst's bribe not because he was high-minded, but because he knew those things would tie him to Hearst's chariot.

He had seen through Hearst's plan to hide the photos not because he was clever, but because he had long known what preparations someone like Hearst would make.

He had used the Fireside Chat to strike back at Hearst's threat not out of luck, but because he knew it was what Hearst feared most.

From beginning to end, Hearst had thought he was hunting.

Only now did he realize—

Perhaps he was the prey.

Feilan straightened up and fastened his suit jacket. "Mr. Hearst, have you read the New York World lately?"

"Look at how well they report on the President. They support him when support is due, criticize him when criticism is due, but they never distort facts or take things out of context."

"So their circulation is rising quite quickly now."

Those words were like the last straw, pressing down on Hearst's already tottering heart.

The founder of the New York World was Joseph Pulitzer.

The two had once fought over circulation, setting off the famous "News War."

The two newspapers competed to publish sensational reports, even staging the double-purchase battle over the "Yellow Kid" comic.

Later, Hearst had poached the entire staff of the New York World's weekly edition in one stroke with high salaries.

Pulitzer had refused to be outdone, launching a counterattack through lawsuits and new hires. The two sides fought until neither could give an inch.

Only after Pulitzer's death had Hearst's group been able to become the emperor of the United States media world.

But ever since the Fireside Chat, the newspapers under Hearst Group had suffered a heavy blow, while Pulitzer Group had taken the opportunity to draw closer to the White House and gradually nibble away at Hearst's empire.

Now that Feilan had said this, it was a threat.

A naked threat.

The United States could have Hearst as its media emperor, and it could also have another emperor rise to the throne.

The market was only so large. If you could not do the job well, then naturally someone else would do it better.

If you did not stand in the right place, naturally someone else would.

Feilan glanced at him, said nothing more, and turned toward the door.

When he reached Carvalho, he stopped, his tone as calm as if he were giving instructions to his own driver. "Please take me back."

Carvalho was taken aback and glanced at Hearst.

Hearst sat motionless on the sofa.

"Of course, Mr. Feilan."

The door closed behind Feilan.

Only Hearst remained in the living room. His gaze was vacant as he thought back over his life.

From taking over his father's newspaper in his twenties to building the largest newspaper empire in the country.

He had faced countless rivals, fought countless hard battles, gone through Congress hearings, and dealt with every kind of crisis.

Yet no matter which time it had been, he had always handled it with ease.

Because he knew what his opponents were thinking.

Because he knew how to manipulate public opinion.

Because he knew the rules of this game, and he was the one who made them.

But today—

Today, he had been led around by the nose.

That young man had never played by his rules from the very beginning.

He had rejected Hearst's bribe, seen through his threat, struck back at him using the methods he was best at, and finally used a competitor to hammer him down.

From beginning to end, Hearst had not possessed even the slightest ability to fight back.

This was nothing like a young man in his twenties.

He was like one of those old foxes who had prowled Capitol Hill for decades.

No, he was more terrifying than those old foxes.

Because at least those old foxes still played by the rules.

But this young man did not play by the rules at all.

Hearst leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

Feilan's final words echoed over and over in his mind: "So their circulation is rising quite quickly now."

A deep exhaustion suddenly washed over him.

It was not the exhaustion of the body, but the fear of a man who believed himself king suddenly discovering that he stood at the edge of a cliff.