In the Mayor's office, there was a stifling atmosphere. Sidney lit a cigarette, leaning sideways in his chair with his right arm, which held the cigarette, resting on the armrest to support his body.
He took a slight puff of the cigarette and inhaled it back in, the smoke exposed in the air seemed to undergo some marvelous chemical reaction, becoming more intense.
He twisted his neck, acknowledging the quandary at hand.
He had seen many dark and ostensibly righteous schemes; he could solve most problems, and the more complex the plot, the easier it was to unravel.
Whether it was a plot or a plan, it was like a machine—if the machine was intricate, having hundreds or thousands of parts, each precisely in its place,
then it would be easy to dismantle—it wasn't his goal to disassemble the machine intact, but simply to stop it.
Thus, destroying just one part would cause the whole machine to seize.
