I searched and fought in America.

The New York Times reporter continued:

"And also, what you just mentioned, cults, human sacrifice, cannibalism."

These things happened in a big American city, in a place with police, government, and a mayor.

My question is, do you think this kind of thing should have been stopped?

He paused, then looked around:

"If it should have been stopped, why wasn't it? Was it police negligence, or does the city government simply not care about those living in the slums?"

The entire room fell silent.

Chief Brown clenched his fists.

He couldn't answer that question.

To say that the police failed in their duties would be to contradict themselves.

If the city government doesn't care, then it's a slap in the face to the mayor and the entire Houston government.

He looked at the two survivors, hoping they could say something to smooth things over.

But at the same time, his expression was also a bit unpleasant. What were those people in charge of teaching them doing?

Why bring up the existence of cults? They should just deny it outright.

But the young mother just lowered her head and didn't say anything.

The elderly man with the broken leg remained silent.

Actually, from the beginning, the municipal government had told them the official language they should use on this issue, but for the sake of His Majesty's plans, they naturally couldn't follow the municipal government's words completely.

The New York Times reporter waited a few seconds, and when no one answered, his smile deepened.

He was about to continue speaking—

The old man with the broken leg suddenly raised his head.

"You just asked how we were rescued?"

The reporter paused for a moment, then nodded:

"Yes, that's a crucial question too: how did you escape?"

A strange expression suddenly appeared on the old man's face.

He turned his head and glanced at the young mother beside him.

The young mother also looked up and met his gaze.

Then she spoke.

"It's one person."

Her voice changed.

It was no longer the bland recitation of a script, but rather carried an irrepressible excitement:

"There was a man who rushed in and saved our child, saved our lives."

The reporters below the stage looked at each other in bewilderment.

The New York Times reporter frowned:

"A person? Who is it? A policeman? A firefighter?"

"no."

The young mother shook her head, her eyes beginning to light up:

"His name is Rosen, and he is of Chinese descent."

"Of Chinese descent?" The reporter paused, then asked, "What does he do?"

"He is..." the young mother paused, seemingly choosing her words carefully, "He is the Holy Father of the Iron Claw Gang."

"The Iron Claw Gang?"

The audience erupted in uproar.

Gangster?

Were the rescuers gangsters?

The reporter's eyes gleamed even brighter; this was big news!

"A gang leader saved you?" His tone carried a hint of doubt.

"How did he rescue them? Did he lead his men in and engage the cult in a gunfight?"

"no."

The young mother shook her head.

She remembered that day at the underground transfer station, when the young man stood in the center of a purple light shield, with raging flames behind him, and his arms around her child.

She took a deep breath and began to narrate, as Rosen had instructed:

He came alone.

"one person?"

"Yes, he rushed into that place alone and found us."

At that time, the cultists were fleeing, and the mercenaries were also fleeing.

The whole place was about to explode, everyone wanted to run, except for him—”

Her voice was choked with emotion:

"Only he came to save us."

The audience was completely silent.

The New York Times reporter was also stunned.

"How did he manage to rescue so many of you all by himself?"

The young mother shook her head:

"I don't know, all I know is that he found us, gathered us together, and told us to close our eyes. And then—"

She paused:

"Then the explosion came, but we didn't die."

"Not dead?" The reporter's brow furrowed even more.

"Such a huge explosion, you were at the epicenter, how could you possibly not have died?"

The young mother looked at him calmly.

"I don't know how to explain it, but the fact is, we survived. All thirteen of us survived."

The New York Daily reporter was grinning from ear to ear. He never expected that the Houston administration would be so useless. He didn't even need to ask any questions; the other party had already provided the fatal flaw.

Just as he was about to ask something, the young mother then said:

"That Chinese person is on the scene right now."

The moment the young mother finished speaking, the entire press conference room fell silent.

Then--

"Whoosh!"

The press section erupted in chaos.

"Where is he? Where is he?"

"Could you please invite him up?"

"Is the Holy Father you mentioned the Chinese man who saved people?"

The reporters, like sharks smelling blood, craned their necks and peered around.

Chief Brown's face looked ashen, as if he had swallowed a fly.

He stiffly turned his head to look at the deputy mayor beside him, whose expression was no better, with the muscles at the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.

None of the Houston officials present looked pleased.

They had worked hard to prepare for this press conference, hoping to guide public opinion towards the idea that "the government's rescue was timely" and "officials cared about the people."

As a result, the two survivors immediately attributed all the credit to a gang leader!

Where do they put their faces?

Chief Brown lowered his voice, almost gritting his teeth, and said, "Who is that Rosen? What exactly is Michael doing?!"

The staff member next to him was also completely bewildered: "I...I don't know, I didn't receive any notification..."

But the reporters didn't care whether these leaders were feeling bad or not; they started shouting.

"Please let Mr. Rosen come up here!"

"We want to interview him!"

"The public has the right to know the truth!"

The cheers grew louder and louder, and Chief Brown's face grew darker and darker. He looked at Michael below the stage with a questioning look in his eyes: What's going on?

Mihir simply glanced back at him calmly and said nothing.

The deputy mayor leaned closer and whispered, "Let them shout. If that person dares to come up, we'll—"

Before he could finish speaking, the side door opened.

A person walked in.

The noise in the hall fell silent in an instant.

He was a young Chinese-American.

He wore a simple dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his forearms. He was not dressed in a suit and tie, nor did he wear a brooch, which contrasted sharply with the neatly dressed officials on the stage.

His steps were steady.

Step by step, slowly and steadily, he stepped onto the stage.

The flashbulbs went off again, this time in a frenzy.

Rosen stood under the spotlight, squinted slightly, then turned to look at the young mother and nodded gently.

The mother's eyes reddened, but she tried her best to hold back, simply holding the child tightly in her arms.

Rosen turned his gaze away and looked at the reporters below the stage.

The New York Times reporter was the first to stand up, holding the microphone high:

"Mr. Rosen! Why did you risk your life to save these people? As far as we know, you are a complete stranger to these survivors. You could have easily evacuated like the others!"

Rosen looked at him and remained silent for a second.

Then he spoke.

"I am an orphan."

His voice wasn't loud, but it could be heard clearly throughout the entire hall through the microphone.

"From a young age, I didn't know who my parents were or why they abandoned me. I wandered the streets, fought with stray dogs for food, and searched for clothes in garbage dumps."

The audience fell silent.

"Later, someone took me in." Rosen paused. "He was my uncle, a retired soldier. He taught me how to shoot, how to fight, and he also taught me a lesson."

He looked at the cameras below the stage and spoke, word by word:

People should know how to be grateful.

He told me that this country gave us a chance to survive, the government provided us with relief subsidies, the police protected our safety, and firefighters saved lives in fires. Although I am poor, I cannot forget my roots.

---

[The Truth About Monthly Passes]

You think I'm begging for votes? No, I'm testing the "active user rate" of our book club. It seems the situation is very serious right now, and we urgently need monthly votes to wake up those dormant souls.