America: From a Fallen Child Star to the Head of the University of the West

That night, close to midnight, Sean Penn had other tough battles to fight.

He was sitting alone in his office, the laptop screen in front of him emitting a faint blue light.

Everyone else in the office had already left, leaving him alone.

He is using encrypted communication software to contact someone in Mexico.

Carlos Mendes.

The fugitive Rachel was referring to as possessing crucial evidence of the Avalon Foundation.

"The money has arrived." A message popped up in the chat box, "Five hundred thousand US dollars, not a penny less. Your billionaire friend is really generous."

Sean's lips twitched slightly as he looked at the words.

Half a million dollars.

This was a "sponsorship" he had managed to get from Musk after a great deal of effort. The world's richest man expressed sympathy for his current situation and did not inquire about his plans for it; his only request was that he help promote Grok.

"What about the core list?" Sean typed on the keyboard.

"The list costs two million. Your five hundred thousand will only buy a portion of the internal communication records and emails," the other party replied. "But don't worry, these things are also very valuable. You can find many interesting things in them."

Sir, I can wait until you have the money before sending all the information. Rest assured, I swear in my mother's name that I am a person of good character.

day!

"You like to raise prices on the spot, huh..." he cursed inwardly, but still typed out this line:

"Fine, just send it over."

A few minutes later, an encrypted compressed file appeared in Sean's download list.

He unzipped the file and began browsing the emails and chat logs.

As Carlos stated, these communications involve the core operations of the Avalon Foundation, including fund flows, investment projects, and pseudonyms that appear to be internal code names.

"Cardinal", "Banker", "Gardener", "Doctor"...

"What is this? A foundation scam or the Avengers?" Sean quipped.

Of course. While it's understandable to criticize, the frequent appearance of these pseudonyms in various sensitive discussions is clearly a tactic used by the foundation's higher-ups to conceal their true identities.

Sean frowned, trying to make sense of the jumbled information.

Just then, his gaze fell on an alias.

"actor".

This pseudonym appeared infrequently in the emails, but each time it did, it was related to specific events: charity galas, fundraising speeches, public appearances, etc.

Sean's heart began to race.

He continued scrolling down, trying to find more information about the "actors".

Then he saw an email dated March 2022.

From: Gardener

Recipient: Actor

Subject: Next Week's Plans

Contents:

"Actor, the fundraising dinner next Wednesday will proceed as usual. You'll be in charge of warming up the crowd and making your presence felt. I'll send you the specific script in advance. Remember, the target audience is those few retirement fund managers; they like to hear touching stories. Also, the commission has already been deposited into the usual place; please check it."

Sean stared at the email, his head beginning to throb.

"actor"……

This pseudonym...

A strange sense of dizziness washed over him, as if something deep within his mind was trying to break through the soil.

Those are the original owner's memories.

Fragmented images began to flash through my mind:

A luxurious banquet hall, adorned with elegantly dressed women under crystal chandeliers; then a check appears, bearing a five-figure sum; followed by a voice whispering in your ear: "Mr. Actor, it's been a pleasure working with you."

There was also a signature he made himself. However, it wasn't "Sean Penn," but rather "Actor."

"Damn it..."

A few beads of sweat had already trickled down Sean's back.

The original owner wasn't merely passively supporting the Avalon Foundation, nor did he simply obtain a film and television contract through it. He was very likely involved much more deeply!

Why haven't those people officially launched an attack on him yet? Why are they still tolerating him causing chaos in Philadelphia?

Thinking of this, his head started to ache again.

That night, he tried to get even more money...

……

"Mr. Pan, you seem a little distracted?"

The following morning, at the North Philadelphia campaign office.

Sean sat at his desk, a cup of coffee in his hand, but his gaze seemed to wander off somewhere. There were obvious dark circles under his eyes, clearly indicating that he hadn't slept well the night before.

Matthew walked in carrying a stack of documents and noticed Sean's unusual behavior.

"It's nothing." Sean snapped out of his daze and rubbed his temples. "I stayed up too late last night researching materials."

That's obviously a lie.

The emails from last night about "actors" pierced his heart like a thorn. What role did the original owner play in the Avalon Foundation? And who were those aliases behind?

What worries him even more is that if the original owner was truly deeply involved in that scam, then all his current efforts could be ruined at any time due to the emergence of new evidence.

He preferred to hope that it was the drugs that the original owner of this body had used that were having an effect.

No matter what, these things can't be known to anyone on the team. At least not now. Especially Rachel, she thought she could help Sean, but unexpectedly...

Well, I guess I've helped him in some way.

If Musk were to give him another sum of money, he might hire a group of people to go to Mexico and kill the informant.

"Are you really alright?" Matthew asked with some concern. "If you need to rest..."

"I said it's nothing, so it's nothing." Sean stood up, stretched his neck, and asked, "What time does today's recruitment event start?"

"9:30," Matthew glanced at his watch. "Twenty minutes to go. The applicants should be waiting downstairs by now."

"Then let's begin preparations."

……

Half an hour later, the office's meeting area was temporarily converted into an interview venue.

Several long tables were pushed together, with Sean, Matthew, and Sarah sitting on one side, acting as interviewers. On the other side was a row of folding chairs for the job applicants.

There are quite a few positions available today.

There are flyer designers, social media operators, data analysts—tracking poll data and voter sentiment—outreach coordinators, and so on—the names are all so damn professional! Sean is most familiar with:

Volunteer coordinators in each constituency.

Then, the first batch of applicants walked in.

Most of the applicants were young people in their early twenties, some were students at Penn, and others were Sean's fans who came after seeing the recruitment information online. Their eyes were filled with fervor, as if they were there to participate in a revolution rather than to apply for a job.

Sean didn't even need to look at the numbers above their heads to know that these guys were all above 70.

"Please be seated, everyone." Sean gestured for everyone to sit down. "Before we officially begin, I'd like to ask you a question."

Why do you want to join my campaign team?

He felt like a judge on "The Voice of China," turning his chair for whoever answered well.

After a few seconds of complete silence, a young man wearing black-rimmed glasses was the first to raise his hand.

"Mr. Pan, my name is Allen, and I'm studying political science at Temple University." His voice was clear and bright. "I want to join your team because I'm fed up with the hypocrisy of two-party politics. The Democrats and Republicans seem to be arguing fiercely, but in reality, they're both serving the interests of Wall Street's financiers. Only you dare to stand up and speak the truth, dare to overturn the table!"

"Flip the table?" Sean raised an eyebrow.

"Yes!" Allen said, getting more and more excited. "I've read what you said in Chinatown at least ten times. 'They want to use the stadium to destroy your community, so I'll help you turn the stadium into their graveyard.' That line was so inspiring! That's the kind of leader our generation needs—uncompromising, unyielding, and willing to stand up to vested interests head-on!"

The other young people nodded in agreement, and the atmosphere became somewhat excited.

Sean, however, was not infected by this enthusiasm, because he had no recollection of ever saying such a thing.

He simply looked at Allen quietly, then asked:

"Allen, do you have any actual campaign work experience?"

"Uh..." Allen paused for a moment, "I ran for student council in school..."

"Student council elections," Sean repeated, his tone flat. "Anything else?"

"I...I've forwarded many posts for you online, and I even organized a fan group to support you..."

"Share posts, create a fan group." Sean nodded. "Besides that? Can you do data analysis? Do you understand the voter registration process? Do you know how to apply for a parade permit? Can you write press releases?"

Allen's face turned bright red, and he was speechless for a moment.

"I'm not trying to discourage you," Sean's tone softened. "I appreciate your enthusiasm. But I need more than just enthusiasm; I need people who can get things done. It's satisfying to overturn the table, but what happens afterward? Someone has to clean up the mess and set the table properly."

He stood up, walked to the whiteboard, and picked up a marker.

"An election campaign isn't a rock concert where you just shout slogans and it's over. It's a marathon, a lot of hard work made up of countless tedious details."

He wrote a few words on the whiteboard: fundraising, mobilization, publicity, logistics, and legal affairs.

"These are the key factors that determine victory or defeat. So, I hope you think it through: are you here to chase stars or to work? I don't want you to waste your bright future because of a momentary impulse."

The meeting room fell silent.

Those young people who were originally full of enthusiasm were now deep in thought.

After a while, a girl who had been sitting in the corner and hadn't said much raised her hand.

"Mr. Pan, my name is Emily Walker." She stood up, her voice soft but steady. "I have no political ideals, nor am I a fan of yours."

"Oh?" Sean's interest was piqued. "Then why are you applying for this job?"

"Because I need a job," Emily said frankly. "I just graduated from Philadelphia Community College with a degree in accounting. I worked for six months as a financial assistant at a small nonprofit, doing bookkeeping, tax filing, and applying for government grants. That organization later closed down due to funding problems, and I lost my job."

"I see you're hiring an accountant. The pay isn't high, but at least it's a respectable job." She looked at Sean. "I don't understand politics, but I understand numbers. If you need someone who can keep the accounts straight, I can give it a try."

Sean looked at the young girl, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"You've been hired."

"What?" Emily was stunned. "That's it? Aren't you going to ask anything else?"

"You've answered the question I most wanted to know," Sean said. "You're here to work, not to chase after celebrities. Welcome to the team, Emily."

"That's it?" Sarah asked in disbelief.

"That's it," Sean confirmed, then looked at Allen, whose face was still flushed.

"Allen, you've been hired too."

"Huh? Me?" Allen was a little confused.

Wasn't he just criticizing his own idealism?

"Yes," Sean actually had no intention of gaining any sense of superiority from these young people who were only a year or two younger than him, and besides, he couldn't afford to alienate them as his supporters. "But I'll arrange another position for you. This position may not be very high, and it may not bring you fame or fortune; it might even put you in some kind of risk. Are you willing?"

Sean firmly believes that everyone possesses enormous potential, which can only be realized through proper division of labor.

Allen was clearly moved to tears by his words, and for some reason, he burst into tears.

"Yes, of course I'm willing, Mr. Pan!"

"...Okay, I kind of regret hiring this bastard."