When I step into the newsroom, the producers, editors, and interns are still busy at work. They quickly look up from their screens and acknowledge me.

"I need updates," I say, approaching them. They hesitantly look at each other for a second. Viri, one of our most promising associate producers, jumps up first. She brings her laptop with her.

"Well, we have to smooth out a few more details, but look at what we noticed," She says, turning a screen in my direction.

It's the afternoon show. Julie, a well-groomed young woman in a bright floral dress is sitting opposite one of our most esteemed interviewers. Her hands are neatly folded in her lap, and she is speaking in a sincere tone of voice.

"It was an obvious abuse of power. Being denied food for any reason is a violation of the contract I had signed. Once I filed my complaint, they got in touch with me, and he was relieved of his job."

"How long would you say this process was?" The interviewer asks.

"Well, maybe three to four months. I can't exactly remember. It's been a long time since then. The process does take a few months because the unit head has to investigate and make sure that the claims are legitimate," She replies. 

Viri pauses the video. She says, "After this, Julie goes on and on about how efficient their grievance procedure really is. Jeremiah pointed out that this isn't their exact process. Back when they were working for Nutrien, you were supposed to raise your grievances with the unit head. That's the first form you have to fill. Your parents have to be contacted, and their signature is needed as well. Then, you can approach the grievance cell and file the 'official report.' That's the second form. The cell investigates the issue and schedules a hearing."

"Okay, so what's your point?" I ask. "He's right."

"Except," Another producer perks up. "He has never mentioned what happens after a grievance hearing—an appeal! We looked it up. He never appealed his verdict. His hearing, according to the records, was ridiculously short. That was grounds enough for an appeal with no new evidence needed. So, why didn't he file for an appeal?"

I sigh softly. I hate that Ara incentivized chasing stories like these at the meeting.

"You're walking a dangerously thin line. Unless Collin delivers this portion as a general curiosity regarding the procedure, it will seem like he is victim-blaming him on air. Jeremiah has already addressed this after The Telegram's anchor ripped his interview apart. We don't want backlash." I reply grimly.

"Oh, of course. We'll frame it like that," Viri quickly agrees. 

When she steps away, a young intern rushes towards me with a phone pressed to her ear.

"Our last panelist declined," She says in a hurry. "I have a senior HR consultant who is willing to be on the panel. He says that Nutrien has been trying to reform their system through the years."

"How so?" I ask, and on processing the first bit of information, I immediately add, "Wait, why did the last one decline? I thought we had him."

"No idea. Said that, 'he can't make it.' Just like that." She pouts. "The HR guy says that Nutrien changed its policy of filing the first form with the unit head, and replaced it with 'an informal discussion.' It's less official."

"Well, we have to put this together soon so just book him." I concede. "Oh! And call our contact at Orion and ask why our promotional post for tomorrow's segment got taken down."

She hesitates. "Our promos on ATOM?"

"Yes."

"Doesn't Orion deal with processing chips?" she asks, with a worried lopsided smile.

I can't tell if she's joking or not. Either way, right now, I don't have a sense of humor. "Orion is a very big corporation, which deals with many things, including social media platforms." I speak slowly, as if she was a child.

Her mouth squeezes into a small shape, and she looks up at me bashfully. "Sorry, I didn't know." She mutters, before scurrying away.

I feel horrible and make a mental note to apologize to her at the end of the day. There is a faint metallic taste in my mouth, and I cannot get rid of it.

I ask aloud, to no one in particular. "What about Jeremiah's whistleblower—the mysterious accountant—who was working on that one?" 

A young man raises his hand and shares a nervous look with Viri. I walk towards his desk, and Viri joins us.

"According to the whistleblower, Julie is indebted to Nutrien," He begins to explain. "She has to compensate them for making them fire her supervisor—"

"We can't tell if the claims are legitimate—" Viri interjects.

"—There is not much to suggest that they're illegitimate." He sighs. "Julie does have debt, and she did sign a non-disclosure agreement."

"So, you don't have anything yet." I say flatly. He purses his lips and avoids my gaze. "I need this story to be a priority. I need a theory of some kind. 'Why would she be indebted to them?' Just enough for a four minute block. I have a note to quell the discussion around this—it's not fun for me either. For today, let's just focus on the grievance procedure."

"Alright." He returns a tight-lipped smile. Handing me a tablet, he adds "We got hold of Collin an hour ago and got this sound bite."

The screen lights up with colourful swooping graphics which float away to reveal a close-up shot of Collin.

"If the Northside candidate has you convinced, you might want to look a little closer. What's the truth behind grievance cells? Come join us tonight at seven p.m."

The Reverent's symbol flashes on to the screen as the rest fades to white.

"It's a little bait-y," Viri says, taking the tablet from me. "But it works. We'll put it up as a banner across all platforms and draw in the viewers who will be logging on to read about the Ivo border crisis."

In an unfortunate turn of events, last week marked a full year of the extreme drought in Iberia. The relief predicted by the scientists did not arrive. Government assistance fell short as well. Late last night, boats and boats of people touched down at the coast of Ivo, our neighbouring province. This is the largest inflow of people we've had in years. 

Viri's plan was smart. Detestably smart.

"That's a smart idea," I mutter out loud. I don't think they catch the tinge of disdain in my voice.

"Well, it's yours." Viri chuckles.

"Huh?"

"You came up with it last year. Every one was logging on to learn more about the flash floods, but we needed some traction regarding Zach Young's policies. You suggested this to Ara at the rundown meeting. I was new then," She explains with a twinkle in her eye.

"Right." I breathe. "I did do that."

"I was really happy to hear about your promotion. I think you really deserve it!" She adds with a large smile on her face.

"Thank you, Viri. That means a lot." I clear my throat. It feels painful to hold their gaze as my chest fills with shame. "Well, on with it. I need to check up on a few more things."

They return to their work with busy chatter, and I walk back into my office as fast as I can. The smell of the new paint, the empty picture frames, and the unpacked carton of office supplies seem to be mocking me.

I place a hand on my desk to steady myself, and stare blankly at it. I can feel the edge of the office chair on the back of my knees.

I remember that meeting now. My itching need to get ahead; to be recognized and acknowledged. My hand shooting up in the air. "Banners! We should introduce interactive banners, and place it on all our pages across media." That was one of the very first times, I had felt seen. I had soaked myself in the comfort of my win.

Now, I'm significantly closer to where I have always wanted to be. I should be grateful that once the ratings came in Ara considered the interview a massive success, but I can't bring myself to feel that way. 

"Oh, I finally found you!"

I look up as Ara's assistant closes the large glass door behind him.

"Here you go." He hands me a printed sheet of paper. "All of the important charities Mark supports. They have the most name recognition in Northside. Make sure these go out."

I assure him, noncommittally, looking at the bustling newsroom outside my office door instead of him.

"Also, Ara wanted to tell you about someone she wants on today's debate panel. He was in the same unit as Jeremiah and claims that Jeremiah broke a table after a row with a teacher."

"Uh huh." My eyes are still fixed on a large hologram of the coast of Ivo at the other end of the floor. It glitches and defaults—prompting loud groans to erupt from outside.

"London."

"Yes? I said I'll do it," I reply quickly meeting his gaze. He sighs and haphazardly combs his hair back with his fingers.

"I know this promotion is intense—you're probably still recovering—but we are in crisis mode right now. I've seen you around for a while, and I trust you to keep your head above water. It's hard enough handling one story but I have to make sure Ara's on top of this Ivo shit too. I need your A game. You can't ignore Wayne's emails, okay?"

I bite my lip recalling my last interaction with Wayne. I may have been purposefully avoiding him.

"Of course, I'm on it. I was just checking up on a few other things." I lie.

"Sure, but respond to his emails. Seriously, word of advice—if you impress him, you're set," He says with a friendly grin.

When he leaves, I sit down in a defeated slouch. My phone rings in my pocket and I pull it out. 

Come on. I can do this. 

I just have to suck it up and do it. It's my job. I don't have a choice. 

Good evening London,

I appreciate the updates. Please keep them coming.

Sorry if I mistook your tone in our last interaction. You're right, lots of corporations are struggling with lawsuits and their popularity is still holding steady. I understand we shouldn't "panic." Call this damage prevention. Anyway, you gave me a lead. Jeremiah's wife, Aleena is working for a company also under investigation. Check the attachment for all the details.

Their hypocrisy won't make a compelling segment, but it would be great if you could just pepper this in somewhere.

Regards,
Wayne H.
Director of public relations,
Nutrien HQ.

I pull the attachment up on my screen and stare at the details. Discrimination and breach of contract. There is a picture of Aleena as well. Mahogany coloured locks delicately frame her face, complimenting her chestnut skin tone. She has a kind smiling face—the way Jeremiah does. I don't want to look at her anymore.

My eyes drift towards the little fluorescent bottle on my desk. I think of my first successful project. My child-like adoration for the shiny tape on my first all-floors access card. Now, all it reminds me of is the shimmery star sticker that my cousin had left on my I.V. stand. I catch myself picking at the label stuck on the back of the bottle and force myself to focus. 

Straightening up in my seat, I quickly type out a reply. 

Thank you for understanding, Wayne. I apologize for being too blunt.

Don't worry about this. I will forward it over to one of our freelancers. We have an op-ed going out in a couple of hours, and I'll get them to add this in.

Regards,
London.

In a few seconds, I have forwarded the details to our freelance writer.

My phone buzzes again, and it's a message from Ara. It just reads: "Whistle-blower update." I realise that we're running out of time. We need to fix those three minutes before seven.

I start digging. Nutrien scholarship websites, college credits, Julie's courses, and potential payments. Pages after pages. 

I ignore Ara's words of caution and send a list of questions to Wayne as they come to me.

Did she damage anything in the workshops? Did she switch majors? Did she take a course Nutrien didn't cover? Are the claims true?

Clean record.

Regards,
Wayne H.

Switched from chemical to advertising. We offer both courses.

Regards,
Wayne H.

I cannot answer any other questions at this time. But if you have more, you can find the file we left in the office archive! Take care.

Wayne H.

I try not to think about the informal nature of his last email while walking to the archive. It's a stuffy cube shaped room with frosted glass walls. There are rows and rows of shelves, neatly arranged from one end to another. 

Julie's file is easy to find and smells like mothballs. I lean against a shelf and read through it. 

Aha! Finally. A smile breaks out on my face, and I quickly text Viri: "Single-parent household. Very likely that she took loans to support her mother back home. Add that survey on corp kids contributing significantly to their household income."

The tension in my shoulders dissipate. Without thinking, I begin to fan my face with the file. I didn't realise how hot it was in here. My bangs are sticking to my forehead, and my cheeks are flushed.

When my phone buzzes with what I had expected to be Viri's reply, the victorious smile on my face falls. The air is hot, still, and suffocating.

Arrested three hours ago.

A lawyer is with her. Says a maximum of one year but he can get her down to five months with parole.

Don't try anything stupid. She's going to be fine.

The messages come one after the other. I stare at them for a while before thanking him, and stuffing my phone back in my pocket. Julie's file is still in my hands.

Shame is a strange thing. It's almost like a living entity, sitting and breathing on my chest. Its weight pressing down like a dull wound. When I leave the cubicle, it's as if the office floor is silent and every person looks up at me. Once I've locked myself in the bathroom stall, I notice that I still have her file in my hands.

I am not sure why I don't return it. I hide it under my shirt, wash off my dripping mascara, and take my post to monitor the evening segment.

It's only when I am leafing through it on the bus ride home, I realise how reckless this is. Someone will notice that it's missing, and the trail would lead to me. I can't hide it forever. Arguably, I am the person I should be hiding this from. So far, I am the only one who's used it for the worse.

Before my shame can rise from its slumber again, I bring my flask out and take a swig. A little more than I had anticipated. The whiskey burns it's way down and I cough. The passenger sitting on the other side, quickly averts their gaze when I look at them.

Ignoring their judgement, I bring the flask up to my lips again. But then I see it, and my jaw drops.

A couple of people towards the front of the bus stand up to get a better view.

There is a portrait style video of a woman on a billboard. She has a somber look on her modest freckled face. Dark coloured letters show brightly against the white background. They fade in, line by line, next to the slight movements of her face as she looks around.

"I was twelve. If my labels were not perfect, they would make me stay up at the workshop the whole night..."

I stash my flask away, and stand up as well. My head follows the billboard as it moves out of sight. I only manage to catch the last few words—"Aislinn, 35." A few minutes later, another one comes into view. 

A different person, another harrowing story.

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Hi there. This reads like a filler chapter but it's really just to set the next few up. I still hope you enjoyed it! Please comment, don't be a stranger. I would really appreciate it <3