Los Angeles was slow and lazy, just as it was in the daytime.
Beneath the warm summer sun, Martin lounged comfortably on a deck chair by the backyard pool, a glass of juice in one hand and his phone in the other.
On his screen, the little minx Paris Hilton had just sent over a few selfies—scorching hot, even a bit too hot.
Martin took a small sip of juice, trying to cool himself down and avoid any embarrassing reactions.
At his feet, the lion cub Arthur was happily playing with a leather ball—a new toy Martin had recently bought for him.
Watching the cub completely lost in play, Martin could tell he really liked it.
Just then, his phone chimed with a crisp ding.
A new message had come in.
"Someone is snooping around for information on Saddam's whereabouts? What's he up to?"
He paused for a moment, then typed out a reply: "Keep an eye on them. Don't tip them off just yet. Let's see what they're planning."
Thanks to the quiet transformation of the "Soul-Binding Formation," the city of Conakry—capital of Guinea—was now essentially Martin's city. Anyone trying to pull something sneaky within its limits couldn't escape his surveillance.
Lately, though, he hadn't been paying much attention to Guinea. The U.S. presidential election was in full swing, heating up by the day.
Time pushed forward to early February, 2008.
Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Inside a medium-sized conference room at Harvard University.
Martin and his senior schoolmate—Barack Obama—were lounging casually on a circular couch, chatting.
Martin gestured toward two men in dark suits standing in the room, both wearing earpieces, clearly security detail.
"Twelve bodyguards total, huh? Including the ten outside? Barack, don't you think that's a bit much?"
This was the first time Martin had seen Barack Obama mobilize such manpower.
Before they even entered the room, the group had run bomb sweeps and checked for bugs using trained detection dogs. If Barack hadn't stopped them, they might've even tried frisking him.
Martin didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Obama gave a helpless smile. "After all, I might become the first Black president of the United States. A lot of people are worried about an assassination attempt. The Secret Service sent this crew over a few days ago to ensure my personal safety."
He spread his hands in exasperation. "What can I say? I actually tried to refuse. But the people around me insisted—especially Michelle."
Martin nodded. "I don't think your opponents would be dumb enough to try something that extreme, but who knows? This country is full of surprises. Better safe than sorry."
For any Black candidate in a U.S. presidential race, personal safety was a serious concern.
Back in the 1980s, the renowned civil rights leader Jesse Jackson had received countless death threats during his campaign and had to request Secret Service protection. Before him, Secretary Powell had even refused to run out of fear for his life.
Right now, Barack Obama was polling at the top. Many saw him as the modern-day successor to the assassinated President Kennedy—a great leader for a new era.
Professor Harris, a political scientist at Princeton and an expert in modern African American culture, remarked: "The closer he gets to the people, the greater the danger."
"How are things going lately?" Martin asked, switching to business.
He was not only a member of Obama campaign team, but also its biggest financial backer. To this day, Michelle was still drawing a sizable "salary" from his campaign budget—funds that would continue flowing unless Barack Obama made it to the White House.
"I heard Hillary's planning to run too? That's not great news," Martin said, frowning. "I thought you guys in the Democratic Party had already come to an agreement."
Base on his memories, Martin had known that Barack Obama would eventually win the presidency, but he hadn't memorized the details of the campaign. So Hillary's sudden entry into the race caught him off guard.
What if the timeline has changed?
He wasn't about to let his early investment go to waste.
"I tried persuading her behind the scenes," Obama said, "but she's got plenty of supporters within the party, and she's ambitious."
"So an internal party showdown is inevitable?" Martin asked.
Martin's mind raced, memory kicking into high gear. A flood of information about Hillary surged to the surface.
Suddenly, he grinned. "Actually, it's simple. That woman used to strongly support the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. But once things started going south, she quietly flipped her position. Barack, you know how much Americans hate those wars now. That's a huge weak spot."
Obama eyes lit up. "That's a solid angle!"
He chuckled. "I'll have my aides dig up some of her old statements."
In the original timeline, this was exactly how Barack Obama had defeated Hillary—by turning her war record into a liability and winning the Democratic nomination.
Then Obama shifted the conversation to California. "How are things looking over there, Martin? Is the vote count running smoothly?"
Martin leaned back into the sofa and smiled. "With me around, you've got nothing to worry about. Schwarzenegger's support for McCain is a minor nuisance, but nothing more."
If this had been the early days of Schwarzenegger's governorship, Martin might've treaded more carefully—maybe even pulled a few shady moves behind the scenes. Back then, Arnold had been at the peak of his popularity.
But now? That "fit and fabulous" gentleman had pretty much burned through all his goodwill with California voters. He talked big but didn't deliver.
Martin's influence in California had long since surpassed his.
"You can leverage the Black community," Martin added, "but don't get too close. It's a double-edged sword."
As he said this, he glanced toward the two security agents in the room.
They stood at a distance, earpieces in place, eyes fixed elsewhere—true professionals who knew exactly when to mind their own business.
Obama nodded. "I know. But I still need their full support for now, so I can't distance myself just yet. By the way, my team's working on a campaign slogan to resonate with the Black community. Got any ideas?"
Although Martin was a member of the campaign team, his position was quite different from the rest of the staff. Obama never treated him like a subordinate—everything was up for discussion.
A phrase immediately popped into Martin's head—something he remembered from his past life. It had been so well-known that even other countries media had picked it up.
"How about this: 'I am my brother's keeper.'"
"I am my brother's keeper... I am my brother's keeper..."
Obama repeated the phrase a few times, a bright smile spreading across his face.
"That's brilliant. A line from Genesis, no less. Shows I'm a devout Christian, highlights my solidarity with the Black community, and best of all—it's inclusive. I've got both Black and white heritage, so no one can twist these words against me. Ha! Martin, you really are a genius."
"Ah, thanks. That's exactly what I was going for."
Martin accepted the praise with a calm smile, even though he had no idea the line came from Genesis—and hadn't really thought that deeply about its implications at all.