Nadia Brown, early thirties with golden brown skin and shoulder-length braids, shoved through the glass doors of the Herald Newspaper, already bracing for the noise inside. Phones rang, voices clashed, keys hammered like gunfire. The newsroom pulsed with pressure and possibility—the air thick with coffee steam and desperation. She inhaled deeply, savoring that familiar scent of ink and ambition before reality crashed back.
She was late. Again.
Her stomach clenched as she glanced at the clock on the far wall: 10:18 AM. She'd promised herself it wouldn't happen today.
As she moved past the cubicles, stepping carefully around stacks of papers and dodging a harried intern balancing a precarious tower of coffee cups, Zora Edwards spotted her from the corner desk. Her friend's burgundy-painted lips curled into a knowing smile as she raised a perfectly arched brow, slow-clapping with exaggerated form.
"Three-for-three this week. You're going for some kind of personal record?"
Nadia groaned and dropped her messenger bag on the desk with a thud. "Don't. Just... don't."
"Fine, fine." Zora swiveled her chair toward Nadia. "I know that look. You've got exactly seven minutes of self-pity before you need to kick into gear. And also, you're welcome."
"For?"
"That call this morning? That was me saving your behind." She lowered her voice to a theatrical whisper. 
Nadia stepped over to her desk and leaned in, her voice hushed with genuine gratitude. "I owe you big time. I must've turned off the alarm in my sleep again. Third time this week."
"Triple shot espresso. That's what you need." Zora rummaged in her drawer and pulled out a chocolate bar, sliding it across. "Emergency rations. It's fine. But don't get too comfortable. Word is the new chief started today."
Nadia straightened, chocolate forgotten. "What? Today? What happened to Mr. Ben?"
Around them, the newsroom continued its chaotic ballet, but it suddenly seemed like background noise to Nadia. Benjamin Christopher had been her mentor since her first day—the old-school editor who had actually taken her seriously when no one else would.
Zora glanced around and leaned in. Her voice dropped. "Gone. No farewell email. No goodbye speech. Board meeting yesterday afternoon, and this morning—just gone. Cleared-out desk. Everything."
"That doesn't make sense." Nadia's throat tightened. "He wouldn't just leave. Not like that. He's been here for—what—fifteen years?"
"Eighteen," Zora corrected. "His daughter's photo isn't even on the wall anymore. You know, the one with her holding the Pulitzer?"
"I don't understand."
"Exactly. He didn't leave. He was pushed."
The newsroom suddenly felt colder. Nadia scanned the surrounding faces—everyone typing, talking, working, but a current of tension ran beneath it all. Now she noticed the sidelong glances, the hushed conversations.
"So who's the new guy?" Nadia asked, already dreading the answer. "Hope the promotion window is still open?"
"Tyrone Martin." Zora pulled up a browser on her screen and turned it toward Nadia. Former senior editor at The Chronicle. Best student, Windsor Institute of Journalism, Calonia. Ruthless, sharp, full makeover type. Known for revamping struggling papers and—" she paused for effect, "—significantly reducing staff size in the process."
The browser showed a photograph: late-thirties, serious eyes, expression carved from granite. Not someone who looked like he appreciated tardiness.
"When do we meet him?" Nadia asked, her mouth suddenly dry.
"Meeting at noon. Full staff. Conference Room A. Mandatory."
Nadia checked her watch. 10:27. She had less than two hours.
"I need to finish my data brokerage piece," she said, already sliding into her chair and pulling up her files. "If he's here to make cuts, I want to prove my work has teeth."
Zora gave a dry smile. "Then better get cracking, sunshine. And maybe set two alarms tomorrow."
Nadia walked back to her seat, settled in and opened her draft, then stared at the screen, willing the words to transform themselves into something extraordinary:
Behind the digital veil, a hidden industry thrives—collecting, packaging, and selling personal data without consent. Your medical records, your financial struggles, your private moments—all commodified in a marketplace most portovenians don't even know exists.
Good, but not groundbreaking. Not career-saving good. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She could feel the pressure rising in her chest, that familiar tightness that had been her companion for months now.
If this new editor was looking to cut, she needed to prove she wasn't expendable. This story needed to hit harder.
She pulled up her notes, cross-referencing interview transcripts. Maybe if she led with the cancer patient whose treatment details were sold to pharmaceutical companies? Or the divorce records that ended up in marketing databases?
Then her phone buzzed. Unknown Caller.
She stared at it. Something about the number unsettled her—too many zeros but so familiar.
She picked up. "Hello? Nadia Brown speaking."
Silence.
Then breathing. Heavy. Uneven.
Then a voice. Low. Unsteady. Achingly familiar.
"Nadia…"
Her body went rigid. The pen she'd been fidgeting with clattered on the desk. "Who is this?"
A pause. 
"I need your help," the voice continued, a rasp of desperation underneath." You have to write a story. An exclusive. Something big."
"What—what are you talking about?"
A cough, then quieter: "I fucked up. Really fucked up. But you've got to help me."
"Wait—Jay.."
Click.
The line went dead.
She stayed frozen, phone still pressed to her ear. Her heart pounded against her ribs like it was trying to escape. The newsroom noise faded to a distant hum.
That voice. It couldn't be.
But it was.
She whispered the name like it hurt to say: "Jayson…"
Three years. No calls. No texts. No explanations. No answers. Just vanished from her life after she'd given him everything.
Her throat tightened. Anger flared beneath the shock. How dare he. How dare he disappear, then resurface when he needed something? When he needed her?
She dropped the phone on the desk like it burned her and turned back to the screen. Tried to focus on her article. Couldn't. The cursor blinked accusingly.
Her hands shook slightly as she reached for her coffee, now cold. She drank it anyway.
"Hey." Zora's voice startled her. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Nadia forced a smile. "Fine. Just... concentrating."
"Right." Zora didn't look convinced. "Well, thirty minutes till showtime with the new boss. Thought you'd want the heads-up."
"Thanks," Nadia managed.
When Zora turned away, she stared back at her screen. The data brokerage story now seemed painfully inadequate. But there was no time to start over.
She dove in, fingers flying across the keyboard, strengthening transitions, adding statistical punch, weaving in more human impact. Words blurred together as the minutes ticked by.
At 11:58, she hit save and printed the article, still warm from the printer. Her nerves twisted tight as wire as she smoothed out the pages. She didn't know if her piece was enough—but it had to be.
She stepped into the conference room, clutching the paper like a shield. The room buzzed with low conversation and anticipation. Faces she saw every day now looked strained, uncertain. 
She took a seat next to Zora, who slid a cup of water toward her.
"You good?" her friend whispered.
"I will be," Nadia lied. Heart pounding.
Someone dimmed the lights slightly. The projector flickered on. Then the room went quiet.
Tyrone Martin walked in. Not rushed, not hesitant—a controlled stride that covered ground efficiently. Immaculate charcoal suit, blue tie sharp enough to cut glass, cufflinks that caught the light. His presence demanded attention without raising his voice.
He looked like someone who never once doubted his own power.
"Good afternoon," he said, placing a slim leather portfolio on the table. "I'm Tyrone Martin, your new Chief Editor."
Polite applause scattered through the room. Stiff and uncertain.
"I know transitions like this are challenging," he continued, his voice resonating without strain. "I understand Mr. Christopher was well-respected here."
Murmurs of agreement.
"But respect doesn't sell papers. Impact does." He glanced around the room, making eye contact deliberately. "I didn't come here to tear things down—I came to push this paper forward. Hard."
He clicked through to the first slide: circulation numbers in steady decline.
"These numbers tell a story. It's not a good one." Another click: digital subscription growth, anemic compared to competitors. "And this one's worse."
"The board brought me here because they believe in this paper's potential. I reviewed your work over the past six months. There's talent in this room." His gaze swept across them like a searchlight. "But talent without direction is wasted."
He clicked again: a competitor's front page with a corruption exposé that had gone viral.
"While we ran pieces on city council procedural changes, The Meridian broke a story that got a governor investigated. They have a third of our resources and triple our social engagement."
Nadia sank slightly in her chair. Her data piece suddenly felt small.
"I want original stories. Risk. Impact." Martin's voice hardened. "If it's safe, it's useless. I expect more than filler. I expect fire."
He closed the presentation. "I'll review current projects personally. That's all."
Nadia's stomach churned. She wasn't sure if it was fear or fuel.
The meeting ended. People filtered out. Some curious. Some shaken. She saw Sydney, a colleague already updating his resume on his phone.
She stayed behind, tapping her fingers against her printed article.
"You going up?" Zora asked, already grabbing her tablet.
Nadia nodded. "He's reading this article today. I didn't come this far to get passed over."
Zora smiled, squeezing her shoulder. "Atta girl. That's the Nadia I know. Let me know what happens."
The room emptied until only Martin remained, reviewing notes. Nadia straightened her blazer, took a deep breath, and walked to his desk. Her hands were cold, but she kept her chin high.
"Mr. Martin?"
He looked up, expression neutral. "Yes?"
"Nadia Brown. I'd like you to review my latest piece." She handed over the article, noticing a slight tremor in her hand as she did. "I think it aligns with your vision."
He took it without ceremony, flipping it open. His eyes moved quickly—too quickly, she thought. Was he actually reading it?
"The data brokerage one?"
"Yes. It covers the sale of sensitive information—health records, finances, personal details—without consumer consent or knowledge. I've traced how these companies operate in regulatory blindspots."
He continued skimming, his face betraying nothing. No smile. No frown. No reaction.
Then: "Hm."
Her throat tightened. "Something wrong?"
"It's clean. Polished." He closed the pages. "But it's not what I want."
Her heart sank like a stone in still water. "I don't understand."
He looked at her then, finally really looking. His eyes were even more penetrating in person.
"It's competent. But it's safe. It doesn't make noise." He tapped the cover page. "This story could run in any paper nationwide. Why should readers pick up ours?"
"I've worked on this for weeks," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Researched databases, interviewed ex-employees, traced the money—"
"I'm sure you did," he said flatly. "Your thoroughness shows. But I'm looking for disruption. Something that scares people—scares the right people."
The words hit like a gut punch.
"But this exposes real privacy violations. If I want to move up—"
"Then bring me something no one else has the guts to write," he said, cutting her off. "Find the story hiding in plain sight that everyone else is too comfortable to see." He slid the article back across the table. "Then come back."
He returned to his notes, already jotting something in the margin.
Dismissed.
Nadia left the room slowly, jaw tight, the article crumpling slightly in her grip. She could feel heat rising to her face—embarrassment, frustration, anger, all tangled together.
Her thoughts were a storm. She wanted to scream, or cry, or throw something across the room. Years of work, nights hunched over documents, missed parties and relationships set aside—all for "competent but safe."
Instead, she kept walking, spine straight, past the curious glances of colleagues who'd been watching through the glass walls.
Thinking up the next thing to do.