Linda studied him carefully as if recalculating. “You’re too close.”
“No, I’m finally seeing clearly.”
“Do this story or you’re out. You can look for another job.”
Images filled his mind.
Images of Amayah laughing with the Crump kids.
Amayah whispering prayers under her breath.
Amayah standing among her broken outdoor Christmas decorations and choosing mercy.
If protecting her meant challenging the very machine that had shaped his career?
Then maybe it was time something cracked.
Just not her.
His jaw tightened as more images filled his mind.
Amayah standing in that dim house, touching the frame of her door like it was hallowed.
Maisie’s small arms around his neck.
The way integrity looked when it didn’t care about optics.
“What’s your decision?” Linda demanded.
He straightened and held his head higher. “I’m not sacrificing someone honest just to manufacture a headline.”
Linda exhaled slowly. “You’re losing perspective.”
“No. I think I’m finally finding it.”
“If you won’t write the story as assigned, Luke, you’re choosing not to be part of this newsroom anymore.”
He stared at his screen, cursor blinking patiently in a draft that now felt meaningless. “If that’s your stance, then I guess I am.”
“Then so be it.”
As she turned to leave, Luke called her name. She paused, waiting for him—probably to beg for his job back.
Instead, he said, “You know, these online celebrities aren’t the only people you have to watch out for. Regular, everyday people can also influence you in the wrong ways. Even people who were once your heroes.”
Luke stared at his desk.
At the scuffed surface. The coffee ring burned permanently into the finish. The little piles of clutter he’d curated—outdated press passes, half-filled notebooks, a cracked mug from a paper that didn’t even exist anymore.
This desk had been more than furniture. It had been identity. Armor. Proof that he mattered in a world that rarely offered certainty.
And now it felt like a shell he was stepping out of.
He reached for a stack of papers but didn’t move them—only rested his hand there, letting the quiet press in. The newsroom hummed around him: keyboards clicking, phones ringing, the muffled chatter of reporters chasing stories that wouldn’t wait.
Life went on, even when yours stalled.
Luke finally started packing, lifting each item with deliberate care. Pens into the box. Press badges. His cracked coffee mug. The photo pinned to his corkboard—a frozen pier at dusk, taken on the day he still believed truth could save anything. He slid it into the box last.
