Delaney entered to find only four of her six team members present.
Marshall slouched in his usual chair, eyes bloodshot. Sandy picked at her cuticles, not looking up. Mika stared at her phone. The fact-checker's seat was empty. So was the junior reporter's.
"Where are the others?"
Delaney's voice was ice.
Nobody answered immediately. They glanced at each other—that shared look of people bound by mutual fear.
"*Where are the others?*"
Delaney repeated.
"Jake called in sick," Marshall mumbled. "Third time this week."
"And Sophia?"
Silence stretched. Sandy's fingers dug deeper into her cuticle, drawing blood.
"Sandy. Where is Sophia?"
"She quit," Sandy whispered. "Sent her resignation to HR yesterday."
The room temperature seemed to drop.
Delaney moved slowly to the head of the table, her bruised face catching the fluorescent light.
"She quit. Interesting. Did she give a reason?"
"She said—" Sandy's voice cracked. "She said the stress—"
"The stress." Delaney's smile was thin, sharp. "The stress of being part of something *important*? Of doing work that actually *matters*?"
She leaned forward, palms flat on the table.
"Or the stress of betraying this team? Of abandoning a story that could define all of your careers?"
"Delaney—" Marshall started.
"Did any of you speak with her before she made this decision?" Delaney's eyes moved from face to face. "Did anyone try to remind her what we're *building* here? What we're *part of*?"
Mika shifted uncomfortably.
"It's not our job to—"
"It's EXACTLY your job!" Delaney's hand slammed the table. "We're a *unit*. We protect each other. Support each other. When one person wavers, the rest step in. That's how this works. That's how we survive."
The word hung in the air: survive.
"Now." Delaney straightened, smoothing her jacket. "Marshall. Photos from last night?"
He slid the memory card across the table, hand trembling slightly.
"Good. You're committed. You understand."
She turned to Sandy.
"The trainer interview?"
"He's... he rescheduled. Said he needs time to think."
"Time to think." Delaney's voice went soft, dangerous. "Which means someone got to him. Someone warned him. Sandy, did you mention this assignment to anyone outside this room?"
"No! I swear, I—"
"Because we have rules. Clear rules. What happens in this room *stays* in this room. Our work is *sacred*. Protected. The moment we start talking, start doubting, start *breaking formation*—that's when everything falls apart."
Mika's phone buzzed. She glanced at it.
"Put it away," Delaney said quietly.
"It's just—"
"*Put it away.*"
Not a request.
Mika set the phone face-down on the table, hands shaking.
"You all signed on for this," Delaney continued, pacing now. "You all saw what The Fighter represents—the cult of personality, the manufactured hero, the devoted masses who refuse to see the truth. You understood that exposing him requires *dedication*. Sacrifice. You can't do this work halfway. You're either *in*, completely, or you're—"
The conference room door opened.
Rowan stood there with a cardboard tray of coffees, his usual smile uncertain.
"Oh! Sorry, didn't realize there was a meeting. I just thought everyone could use—"
The temperature in the room shifted violently.
"GET OUT!" Delaney's voice was a whip crack. "This is a PRIVATE meeting! You have NO right to—"
"Whoa, hey, I'm so sorry!" Rowan held up one hand, balancing the tray. "I just saw people coming in early and thought coffee might help—"
"We don't need outsiders bringing us coffee. We don't need INTERFERENCE. This team is *self-sufficient*. We take care of our own. Now GET—"
"Delaney." Marshall's voice was quiet but firm. "He's just trying to help."
The room went silent.
Delaney turned slowly to face Marshall.
"What did you say?"
Marshall swallowed hard but held her gaze.
"He's just being nice. He doesn't know—"
"He doesn't know because he's not *part of this*." Delaney's voice had gone very calm, very cold. "He's not part of our team. Our mission. He brings coffee and smiles and acts like everything is *fine*, like the work we're doing is just another office task. He doesn't understand what we've *sacrificed*. What we've *committed to*."
Rowan looked around the table—at Marshall's bloodshot eyes, Sandy's bleeding cuticles, Mika's trembling hands. His smile finally faltered.
"Right," he said quietly. "I'll just... leave these here."
He set the coffee tray on the side table.
"If anyone wants—"
"We don't," Delaney cut him off.
Rowan nodded slowly and left, closing the door with careful gentleness.
The moment he was gone, Delaney turned back to her team.
"You see? That's exactly what I'm talking about. *Outsiders*. People who don't understand the work. Who think they can just... wander in and out. But we know better. We know that real journalism—real *truth*—requires boundaries. Protection. Loyalty."
She moved around the table, stopping behind each person.
"Marshall. You've given us incredible work. Photos that capture the *reality* behind The Fighter's image. You're essential."
Marshall's shoulders relaxed slightly.
"Sandy. Your interview skills are unmatched. Even when sources get scared, you find a way. You're invaluable."
Sandy's fingers stopped picking.
"Mika. Your dedication to surveillance, even when it's uncomfortable—that's what separates real journalists from amateurs. You're irreplaceable."
One by one, she touched their shoulders. Light pressure. Claiming them.
"We are doing something *important*," Delaney said softly. "Something that will change everything. But only if we stay together. Only if we trust each other. Only if we remember that *we* are the only ones who truly understand what this means."
She returned to the head of the table.
"Sophia left because she was weak. Jake is 'sick' because he lacks commitment. But you four—you're still here. You're still *in*. That tells me everything I need to know about your character. Your strength."
The praise landed like warm water after freezing rain. They sat up straighter. Met her eyes.
"Now," Delaney continued, voice brisk and businesslike again. "Marshall, I need you at the gym tomorrow, 6 AM. Elena's been going early to sketch. Get close-ups of her face—I want to document the instability. Sandy, try the trainer again. Remind him gently about what we know. Mika, there's a gallery event Friday night—Elena will be there. I need full coverage."
She paused.
"And if anyone contacts Sophia or Jake, I want to know immediately. They made their choice. They're no longer part of this family."
Family.
The word hung in the air like a benediction.
Nobody questioned it.
"Same time Thursday," Delaney said. "And remember—we protect each other. We trust each other. No one outside this room understands what we're building. Only us."
She gathered her folder and left.
Behind her, the four remaining team members sat in silence.
The coffee Rowan brought grew cold on the side table.
Sandy finally reached for a cup, but Marshall stopped her hand.
"Don't," he whispered. "She'll know."
Sandy pulled her hand back.
They sat there, frozen, until enough time had passed that it felt safe to leave.
One by one, they filtered out.
But they didn't go to their desks.
They went to the bathroom. The stairwell. The parking garage.
Places where they could breathe without being watched.
And in that breathing space, doubts crept in.
*This isn't normal.*
*This isn't journalism.*
*This is something else.*
But none of them said it out loud.
Not yet.
Because leaving meant facing what was in those folders.
And staying meant believing Delaney's words: *You're essential. You're invaluable. You're irreplaceable.*
*You're family.*
In her office, Delaney opened her laptop to The Fighter's face.
She'd lost two. But four remained.
*Four is enough,* she told herself.
*Four is loyal.*
And loyalty was all that mattered.
Outside her office, Rowan organized files at his desk, humming quietly.
Still smiling.
Still oblivious.
Still free.
> Meeting adjourned. Team status: FRAGILE █