"Can you believe it?" Chloe asks with wide eyes.

I don't respond. My eyes are glued to the large screen at the end of our newsroom in disbelief. It continues to play the Reverent's live stream as some of our colleagues stare at it. The cluttered desks, separated by glass walls, stand untouched, but every time a phone rings, there is always a flutter of movement as the responsible producer leaps into action again.

"The artist did not care much for subtleties," Chloe adds. I nod in agreement. "This is definitely about—"

"Yeah." I sigh in amazement.

The picture of the graffiti stays on the screen as the anchor continues to speak. Covering a wall in front of Nutrien's headquarters is a grotesque image of a woman with a head that resembles a fruit basket, being shot with a gun. Blood is splaying out from the plums, berries, pomegranates, and cherries; completely deconstructing her head. Small pieces of the pulpy insides and seeds burst outwards. The rest of her grey and lifeless body is crumpled up like a tin can. Claw-like hands hold the gun.

Chloe and I, stand at my desk and watch the flurry of action in the newsroom. One of the most prestigious ones in the nation, it's a sight to behold.

A maze of sleek computers and blazer-clad shoulders. Papers fly, gadgets ring endlessly, and heels are strewn carelessly under desks. The scent of caffeine is woven into the fabric of this place, and no busy day is complete without an intern making swooping art with a coffee spill on someone's desk.

I have missed this.

While my upper body felt like bruised fruit—vulnerable and scarred, I spent my days fantasizing about being back at work. I have a goal, and that's all I could think of.

I know Chloe missed me too. She's not one to stand around and make conversation during work hours, but things have been different lately.

"Do you see that?" she mutters disapprovingly. I follow her eyeline to the spinning blue rectangle on one end of the screen. It continuously updates itself with statements made by local politicians. "They are desperately trying to prove that the culprit is an ONA supporter. Just to pin it all on Emir again."

"Again?"

"Oh, you have no idea what it was like after the news of the shooting broke," She replies. "AFD-sympathetic anchors, celebrities, and politicians just ripped into Councilman Hamdi's character, pretending as if the ONA was crying wolf. For them, it was an opportunity to make sure that he wouldn't see a second term."

"I had no idea." I swallow. Uncomfortable with the familiar anxiety percolating into my bloodstream at the mention of that day, I fidget with my pen. Neon green graphics light up the screen to promote some home appliance. "You know, he didn't visit me at the hospital."

Chloe tilts her head sympathetically, her blue eyes search my face. "That's probably for the best. You don't want to be associated with him," She says, but I am barely listening.

The colour blue drips into my memory. With the pen pressed to my lips, I ask. "Did she visit me the—uh—the ONA organizer with the blue hair?"

Chloe thinks for a moment before answering. "Dakota."

"Right!"

"She's not an ONA organizer. She's one of those community doctors that move in and out of districts."

"How do you know that?" I exclaim, believing her without a doubt. Chloe was a born-skeptic and never passed on rumors. Apart from this, believing that a community doctor was put in charge of pills and syrups was easy.

"She had stayed in the ambulance with you. They gave me her name when they found your phone. She did visit you. Stayed for a while, and we talked over some terrible hospital coffee."

"Oh. You never mentioned her before."

"I never thought it was worth mentioning," Chloe adds softly, staring at her black stilettoes.

A cold hand clamps down on my shoulder, and I almost jump out of my skin. A junior editor's head comes into view. "You need to see this." She pants. Her frantic movements are enough reason for us to follow her to her desk. "I'm getting word from our field reporter about a possible statement from the ONA."

Colleagues, seated nearby, abandon their work to join us as we huddle around the editor's desk. Our shoulders brush, and I try not to mind it, as we give the screen on her table our undivided attention.

The Reverent, like most media houses, is constantly fighting between authenticity and profit. Naturally, this breeds a strange environment. A place filled with intellectuals who hold degrees in arts, culture, and philosophy should value abstract thought, free speech and other tenets of a democratic utopia. However, my colleagues had perfected the art of storytelling. Some true, some false.

I can't see eye to eye with most of them.

The small square pixels on the editor's screen burst with colour as the shaky camera follows the scene closely.

A reporter, clad in dark clothes, pushes through and juts a mic close to Cherry Devlin's face. Being vice-president of the ONA, her statement could set the tone for the whole party. Her head jerks in his direction, and her blonde waves fall in place effortlessly.

"Do you think the obscene graffiti that was painted on Nutrien's wall, early this morning, was a reference to the Silver Valley shooting?" The reporter shouts. His ears and neck are red under the sun.

"Unlikely. The artist held a grudge against Nutrien." She moves forward, trying her best to reach her car as quickly as possible. Her long overcoat flaps in the wind; it's beige pattern matching her bare makeup.

The determined reporter follows. He elbows past the others, catches Cherry just in time and pushes a mic under her chin again. With one hand on the roof of her car, one foot in the driver's seat, she waits calmly for his next question. Her beautiful face never once betraying her impatience.

"What about the claws? What about Nutrien's long-standing friendship with AFD?" The reporter spits. "Isn't it possible that the artist was an ONA supporter?"

Ouch. I wince. We wait with bated breath for her response. The editor's hand hovers over the phone on her desk.

If Cherry concedes, even with a 'maybe,' we will have to cut and process it immediately. It was a loaded, bad-faith question.

"There is no need to speculate anymore." She responds calmly. "The gendarmes have him in their custody. He's being asked the same questions, and he's going to be charged in due time."

Pinching her lips into a small frown, she adds, "He wasn't born into fortunate circumstances, and he tried his best to give his child a fair education. I am praying that Nutrien doesn't move forward with the three separate charges they're levying on him. It's harsh, it's cruel. They have painted the wall clean in an hour, but he will be paying his due for the rest of his life. Forgiveness does not come naturally, but we must practice it every day, even if in small doses."

And with that, she disappears into her car.

I blink at the screen, shocked at her words. The newsroom unravels. The editor is already on the phone, her shrill voice only slightly audible over the organized chaos of the room. "Three? And how many does one have to be charged with in order to face prison time?"

Chloe rushes to her seat, pulling up her contacts at the local gendarme headquarters. With my tablet ready to jot things down, I make a hasty gesture with my hand, asking the editor to pass on the information.

Still on the phone, she covers the mouthpiece and speaks in a low voice. "Trespassing, vandalism, and if you've seen the graffiti you would have guessed—intentional infliction of emotional distress." A copy of the report pops up on my tablet. "There." She adds, and then resumes nodding along to the other line.

My eyes skim the paper to check for the official letterhead, signatures, and the appropriate address.

"I've got the footage! I'll cut, render and bring it in a minute." Someone shouts from afar.

Without a word, I dart out of the room, down the hallway and into the studio. My worn-out track shoes squeak against the marble.

Our prime time news anchor is now sitting behind a long desk with her back to a view of Northside's skyline. She's listening intently to the first witnesses of the graffiti. On my signal, the video cuts to them, leaving her out of the frame.

The dim technical room is isolated from the rest, and I slip in and grab a headset.

"Is Ara not here?" I ask the technicians as my eyes search the room for my executive producer. The tens of screens mounted on the desks and walls play different feeds from all the cameras, covering multiple angles of each person.

"She just left for a meeting with the network," The director replies. "I'll be giving the cues. Is there an update?"

"Yeah." I say, and he touches a button that makes my headset crinkle with sound. I make my voice as low and as comforting as I can. "There's an update." I repeat gently. "Three charges on the artist. Nod, and I'll continue."

The anchor returns a subtle nod, pulling her tablet closer, and I relay all the required information.

---

Ara's sudden disappearance during her segment was odd. I was ready to hear about it in the coming week, next to the coffee machine, once the gossip mill had decided on the most likely reason, but that all comes crashing when Chloe grabs me roughly outside the studio and leads me to the elevator.

"What happened?" My forehead creases with worry. The neon digits on the sealed elevator door increase at a rapid pace.

"Ara and Jordan want to meet us." Her right foot taps impatiently until the doors slide open with a gentle gust of air. She looks worried, and I don't blame her.

Jordan, our network president, was unpredictable. Something about him always felt unkind. He was the type of man who would look away when in a conversation with you, as if he had other places—better places—to be.

His office mirrors his tough yet polished exterior. The low lighting, the rocky walls, and the overwhelming maps of stories and schedules drawn on a makeshift board.

"Take a seat." He says with a polite smile. His body directed towards the two leather seats planted before his heavy walnut desk.

We make ourselves comfortable, and my eyes anxiously drift towards Ara, who is watching the large screen next to his desk. Headlines run underneath a muted video of three men in rust-coloured uniforms painting over the graffiti.

She turns towards us. "Half of our daytime crew is rushing to work as we speak."

Chloe and I share a confused look, and Ara's lips curve into a smile.

"The ONA is going to announce their candidates for the provincial elections tomorrow." Her heels clack against the stone floor as she moves closer. "Furthermore, this time, they intend to run in all five districts. They are more than just a regional party now. They could, officially, become one of the strongest, opposition parties in the country."

I try to keep my composure, but I'm sure my eyes are wide with shock. Almost at a loss for words, I finally manage to ask. "Who's their nomination for provincial premier?"

"Councilman Hamdi." Ara replies, and her smile deepens. It's almost sinister, the way a hyena watches a lion abandon it's prey's carcass.

Could this really be happening? Do they stand a chance?

"Oh, but he's so...divisive." I quietly comment. Jordan chuckles.

"Can't help it, I guess. Who else has that kind of name recognition?" Chloe says, rhetorically.

All eyes turn to look at her, perplexed. Ara points a finger at the screen where Cherry's statement from earlier replays. Her delicate face is framed in the center. "She does," Ara states in a matter-of-fact manner.

"I know she's the vice-president of the ONA, but I'm blanking on any other details." Chloe admits with red-tinted cheeks.

"Familiarize yourself," Jordan perks up. "By the end of this election cycle, you will definitely know who she is. It took her five seconds to play the situation in her favour. Be honest, what do you remember from her statement?"

Chloe glances at the screen, her brows furrowing as she tries to recall. "The culprit is facing three charges."

"Exactly." Jordan nods. "If you were from Westside and more familiar with her, you'd catch her more spiritual comments too. She had two messages to get across and that's exactly what she does. Five seconds, and every major channel has already picked it up."

Ara walks around us to perch on the edge of the desk. Her slim figure towers over us as Jordan sits down in his tall chair. 

She says. "I know you don't cover politics, Chloe, but we want to host a special. Your help would be greatly appreciated."

"I don't understand." Chloe responds. Neither do I. Still reeling from the news of ONA running for provincial elections, I can barely process Ara's words.

"We want London to produce the special, and we want you to be the managing editor." Ara spells it out for us. "It's a risky idea, but we think you both are ready for it."

"And I like a gamble." Jordan smiles, leaning back in his chair.

In my head, I am screaming. There is just way too much happening at once.

"What's the special?" My voice cracks once I finally speak.

"An interview with ONA's nominee for Northside." Jordan excitedly announces. "Tomorrow, we will know who will take Northside's seat in the provincial council if a majority of its counties vote for the ONA. Which won't ever happen"—he laughs—"but the expected viewer rating is fantastic!"

Chloe's lips are parted in shock. "Oh!" Her eyes gleam with joy as she speaks. "Jordan, thank you for this opportunity. That sounds like a great idea, and I'm so stoked to be a part of this." She barely stops to breathe.

Meanwhile, my body is frozen in shock. Beyond grateful, yet conflicted. "They won't give me an interview." I reply. "They had rejected the idea on the day of"—I take a sharp breath in—"the shooting."

It feels impersonal to call that day, 'the day of the shooting.' How alienating to use an onlooker's descriptor for something my body so gruesomely endured.

"They will now." Ara shuts me down. "Trying to take a province is no joke. They need a platform, and we are giving it to them."

"Well, I hope so. I'm really grateful for this chance, Ara—"

Leather squeaks as Jordan shifts in his seat, one leg crossed over the other. A lighter flicks as he burns the tip of a cigarette. "The network will not tolerate getting undercut." He cuts me off. "We have to be the first ones to sit down with them. That also means that...you have to book them at their earliest possible convenience."

"Of, course." I nod, pinching my lips nervously. "I could do it tomorrow. Ara knows."

Ara laughs in response. "I know. But before you begin, there are certain ground rules."

Chloe sits on the edge of her seat while I keep my spine pressed against the back of my chair. Our reflections in the floor-to-ceiling glass window behind Jordan are overlayed with the twinkling lights of the city underneath.

"If you plan things right, the network will promote the fuck out of this special." Jordan says. Smoke rises upwards in wisps as he talks. "However, you have to remember that The Reverent is not just a public service, it's also a business. You will not ask any questions about the mass unemployment crisis or the camps that ONA had set up."

A nervous smile threatens to break onto my face. 

"Do we just skip past all those years?" Chloe asks cautiously. Her happiness grows somber. "They still impacted other events and they continue to do so." 

I gulp. "What if they bring it up themselves? The camps were one of their biggest accomplishments. If we interview the candidate, we need to get his full profile and do justice to—"

"We will not risk"—Jordan raises his palm to stop us—"offending our shareholders."

I grit my teeth at his tone. I have always wanted to interview the ONA but not like this. And yet, this is still a small price to pay for my first solo project. It could lead to bigger things, and isn't that why I choose to be here everyday? 

"Don't worry," Jordan adds with a reassuring smile. "You can consult us at any time of the day if you have a doubt. A renowned anchor will be assigned to you by the network. Both of you will do great."

I watch Chloe, marked with disappointment, force a faint smile in response. I do the same. This is not a conversation between equals.

Behind her, The Reverent's newstream continues. When Ara's distracted by it, so am I. It replays a harrowing scene. A masked man is being dragged down the steps of a office building by three officers of the gendarmerie. Their shiny buckles and dark pressed uniforms in stark contrast to the man's eggshell-colored button-down.

It's hard to look away, and it's even harder to watch. In my peripheral vision, Jordan follows my line of sight, and I whisper to no one in particular, "Who had tipped them off?"

 Jordan raises a bushy eyebrow. "Who said they were tipped?"

"Oh, we got one confirmation that it was a tip, but we didn't air it." Ara replies, looking only at Jordan. "I heard from a friend that it may be Logan. Do you know him? He's one of Odile's best design directors. He worked on my townhouse." She subtly brags. Jordan nods in confirmation.

"I wouldn't doubt that rumour." He replies. "But Logan's not entirely trustworthy, and I am not convinced that this janitor did the graffiti. I mean, look at him. Would he know that Nutrien plays an important role in AFD's supply chain? 'Cause, the culprit definitely did. It was his "fuck you" to both AFD and Nutrien. The gendarmerie can tell us what they want to, but it's obvious that the graffiti was about the Silver Valley incident."

Incident.

"He could." Chloe interrupts their moment. I understand that she's trying to defend that man's intelligence, but in the process she's incriminating him further. "Every time you flip over a tin of beans, you can read Nutrien's name. They're everywhere. You don't need a college degree to join the dots."

"People don't flip over their tin of beans to look at the tiny script on the back." Jordan brushes her off. His puts his cigarette out on his desk as he continues. "They read the big fancy logo on top. If it says "Sparkle" on one packet and "Shine" on the other, no one bothers to notice that the same corporation is selling them different brands to wash their clothes. Living paycheck to paycheck means you don't have time to notice. But you know who does? Someone like you."

I'm numb to this discussion. I stare at the muted screen the whole time, wringing my hands together. The accused man, the janitor, is probably chained to the back of an armed truck, completely clueless about where he is being taken. Wondering if he'll see his family again, or if the judge will give him a chance.

A cry sits at the bottom of my throat watching the clip replay.

At the end of our meeting, Ara walks us to the lift. She leans in to whisper as if we were scheming a plan. "London, the process of producing a segment isn't as sweet as you imagine it to be, but you'll learn on the job. Some sacrifices are necessary for everyone's benefit."

Obediently, I nod in response.

The elevator ride is short and silent. The footage of the vandal, the news of the elections, and