Delaney Schulz did not smile for cameras. She smiled through them.
At fifty‑six, she moved like a woman who had forgotten how to hesitate : sharp suit hugging her frame, notebook tucked under arm like a blade. The newsroom hummed with its usual late‑afternoon rhythm with keyboards clacking, phones murmuring, coffee machine gurgling like a distant complaint. But around her desk, it was a pocket of frost. Colleagues kept their eyes down, paths curving wide to avoid her corner. No one met her gaze. No casual "hey". She was the problem, and they all knew it.
She was late. Her boss would notice.Delaney hunched over her desk, eyes locked on the laptop screen in a way that made her neck ache. The Fighter's face filled it ; mid‑hook, glitter mid‑flight, that infuriating mouthguard grin frozen in pixel perfection. She'd been staring too long, chasing something in the angle of his jaw, the flash of his eyes. The article draft blinked accusingly: "Victory Lap or Veneer? The Fighter's Hollow Crown."
A shadow fell across her keyboard. Carole, clipboard in hand, all forced cheer.
Delaney didn't look up. "Are you kidding me? If they really wanted to see me, they'd tell me ahead. Not through some... secretary. What the hell."
Carole's smile tightened. She walked away without a word.
Delaney slammed the laptop shut, grabbed her notebook, and stood. Whatever newbie thought they could summon her like this was about to learn how real journalists worked.
The corridor blurred past : fluorescent hell, colleagues' glances like needles. She didn't knock. Door flew open.
Inside, a young woman in a pink hijab and long suit dress sat at her desk — the previous editor's desk — peacefully sorting through Delaney's files. Elegant hands rifled notes like they owned them.
The woman looked up, calm. Too calm. "Ok. But it's important to be respectful, especially toward employees who've recently joined the company..."
The woman set a folder aside deliberately. "I'm not an intern. Actually, I'm your new editor. And if this is how you address your team... yeah, no. We have a bigger problem than paperwork."
Delaney froze. The room tilted. She forced a laugh — brittle, wrong. "I—I knew that! I mean, I was just joking. Breaking the ice?"
The woman — Ms. Vargas, nameplate confirmed — raised an eyebrow. "Aha? Jokes aren't an excuse for crossing boundaries. Close the door. We're having a real conversation."
Delaney complied, pulse hammering. Vargas gestured to the chair. Delaney sat, glancing around like a cornered animal, forcing a casual smile that wouldn't stick.
Vargas slid a thick report across the desk. "Your previous manager... he chose to look the other way on many of these incidents. Let most 'slide' without formal reports."
Delaney's mouth dried. "Incidents?"
"This report — compiled by your former boss. The one you had that... unusual arrangement with." Vargas's voice stayed even. "You shared twenty percent of your earnings from published articles with him."
Delaney shifted. Not a secret, but not for desk discussion.
"I won't pretend this isn't complicated," Vargas continued. "But it reflects issues he flagged. Pattern of missed deadlines. Refusal to follow editorial direction. Tense colleague relations. And the deeply troubling online behavior involving minors...?"
Delaney's stomach dropped. "His notes show how these were tolerated. Partially because of that financial tie."
Delaney mumbled under her breath, "What a snitch..."
Delaney blinked, caught. "I meant... what a bitch... oh god."
Vargas raised an eyebrow, voice cooling to steel but laced with something softer underneath. "Delaney, your reputation precedes you. Your last boss said he'd have fired you by now. Barely any effort. Articles that are just empty attacks — especially toward The Fighter, this new rising star for some reason."
Delaney stiffened. The screen from her desk flashed in memory — his face, waiting to be peeled apart.
"Yeah, no," Vargas went on. "I'm not carrying that cycle. I want this journal to be collaboration, not petty rivalries and grudges. No more hate‑filled pieces. Especially not The Fighter — not today, tomorrow, or ever. We owe our audience better than recycled bitterness."
She leaned forward. "Viewers expect honesty, nuance. If you bring only grievances and spite, you betray the team. Everyone reading us. Second chance: real effort, shift focus, be part of this — or I'll fire you myself. I don't care. That's what I should've done Day One. Good attitude isn't optional. You decide."
Silence stretched. Delaney stood, quiet, fazed. Walked to the door without a word. Pulled it shut behind her.
Vargas exhaled, alone. Picked up Delaney's top file — Fighter notes, obsessive margins. Shook her head, almost sad. Slipped a small tea thermos onto the desk's edge. Chamomile. Straight chamomille. Very herbal. Delaney's favorite, though she'd never say how she knew.
Outside, Delaney leaned against the wall, breath ragged. Screen glare waited back at her desk. His grin. Her byline.
She'd decide alright.