The newsroom had emptied hours ago, leaving Delaney Schulz alone in the pool of cold light from her desk lamp.
Around her, desks sat abandoned — keyboards silent, chairs pushed in neat, a deliberate circle of avoidance her colleagues had perfected over months. No one met her eyes anymore. No small talk over coffee. She was the burr in the room's fabric, the glitch they pretended not to see. And tonight, after Vargas's scalpel‑precise dressing‑down, the isolation felt like armor.
Incidents. Empty attacks. Fire you.
The words looped as she stared at her laptop screen. The Fighter's face dominated it — post‑victory, arms thrust triumphant, glitter robe catching arena floods like a disco supernova. The draft title blinked mockingly: "Glitter Victory: Triumph or Facade?" Useless. Spineless. Serious journalism demanded access — quotes, documents, the cracks beneath polish. She had none. Only grudge, festering since his first rhinestone entrance mocked her bylines.
Shock from the meeting had curdled into something colder: decision. If truth wouldn't yield, she'd force it. Orchestrate it. Vargas wanted "effort"? She'd drown them in story.
Her fingers hovered, then flew across keys. Research first — property records, his family's modest suburb address pulled from old profiles. Parents' house. Perfect. "Rising star's humble roots razed" — tragedy with teeth. Fire screamed chaos, drew him out, cracked the persona wide.
Not to hurt. To expose. Gas leak for cover — tragic accident. She'd be the "witness," first on scene, notebook hungry.
She cracked her neck, saved the tab. Burner browser open. Typed query: "Local accelerants, low trace?" Forum post, anonymous.
Replies pinged. She nodded. Simple. Tonight.
Wine glass sweated untouched. TONIGHT.
Streetlights barely touched the suburb's quiet veins at 1 a.m. Delaney parked two blocks from the target, hoodie shadowing her face, gloves muffling fingerprints. The jerry can sloshed heavy in her grip ; lighter fluid, odorless enough at distance. The Fighter's parents' house slept dark, ordinary under a moonless sky. His origin story. Fitting pyre.
She moved low, pulse steady. Thin line at back door ; careful, controlled. Flicked the lighter. Flame kissed fuel. Hungry whoosh. It caught eager, licking up siding silent.
She melted into shadows across street. Phone timer ticked. Sirens distant ,a first truck wailing closer. How perfect.
Her burner phone out. Tip line dialed, voice pitched low through cloth. "Fire at [address]. Witness ; sparks first, smelled gas bad." Click.
Circling block casual, notebook ready as "neighbor." First on scene.
Dawn broke bloody over the blaze.
Roof caved mid‑whoosh, sparks exploding skyward. Firefighters battled hoses, faces grim. Crowd swelled — phones high. Journalists trickled, bleary but ravenous.
Delaney "arrived," notebook flipped, face etched credible shock. "Huge when I got here — thought gas at first!"
"First here," she said smooth. "Spread so fast."
Cameras rolled her "witness" account. Byline locked.
His parents stumbled out — blankets clutched, soot‑streaked, dazed. Elena arrived minutes later, fierce shield against mics. No sign of him. Good.
From crowd edge, Delaney watched. Phone buzzed ; her draft live: "Fighter's Family Home Gutted — Gas Leak Tragedy Hits Rising Star."
Hits surged. Grudge transmuted to gold.
Back home, wine untouched still. Next steps queued: fake interview bait, rival tips. Chain reaction.
Vargas would praise the "scoops." Newsroom would glance her way.
Truth? She'd forged it HERSELF. Closer now. His cracks waited.