Chapter One - Clara
My fingers hover above the keyboard long after I hit publish. The cursor blinks at me like it’s waiting to see if I regret it, but my chest feels weightless, almost buzzing. I read the headline again, steadying myself.
Bratva Ties in City Hall—The Names No One Touches.
Beneath it, my name in bold.My name. I breathe out, slow and careful, the way I do before a big exam or a difficult interview. Except this feels bigger.
I lean back in my chair, absorbing the newsroom noise around me. Phones ring. Printers hum. Students argue over edits. Everything goes on like normal while my whole world shifts two inches to the left.
I should feel proud. I do, mostly. I spent months on this investigation, chasing down documents, begging anonymous sources to talk, matching patterns no one wanted to see. I went through three drafts and two panic attacks. I checked my facts until my eyes ached.
Still, when I wrote the line naming Lukyan Sharov—therumored Bratva head, the man everyone references in lowered voices—I hesitated. For hours.
My professor warned me. “These aren’t playground bullies, Clara. Powerful people don’t like having their secrets printed.”
I printed them anyway.
Movement catches my eye. The notification count jumps from thirty-eight to forty-nine. Comments pour in faster than I can read them.
Finally, someone with guts.
Holy shit, this is huge.
She really wrote his name??
Brave or stupid, I can’t decide.
Warmth spreads in my chest. Someone shares it on Twitter. Then a local political blogger reposts it. My phone vibrates nonstop against the desk.
I try to play it cool, acting like this is just another day in the student newsroom, but my hands itch with the need to refresh the page again and again. Every new comment feels like a spark landing on dry kindling.
Across the room, Eden swivels in her chair. “Clara, you’re trending.”
My stomach flips. “Trending how?”
She scoots over, holding her phone out. “Look.”
My article header fills the screen. Under it is a string of reposts from students, reporters, and random strangers cheering me on. Someone from a major outlet comments,Sharp reporting from a rising journalist.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “That’s ridiculous.”
Eden grins. “This is insane. You’re basically famous now.”
“I’m not famous. I’m… lucky the servers haven’t crashed.”
“Lucky?” She snorts. “Doesn’t even begin to describe it. You just exposed half the city’s corruption network. I would die for this kind of visibility.”
I force a smile, but there’s pressure behind my ribs. Visibility sounds exciting until you realize how many kinds of people might be looking.
I shake it off and close my laptop. If I stay glued to the screen any longer, I’ll spiral. I grab my bag, slip out of the newsroom, and step into the hallway.
Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. Students walk past, oblivious to the way my pulse hammers in my throat. I replay my professor’s warning in my head. His tone wasn’t stern; it was frightened. I told myself he was being dramatic, but the echo lingers.
In the quad, cold air rushes against my face. I breathe it in like it can ground me. Golden leaves trail down from the trees. People laugh near the benches. Nothing feels dangerous. Nothing looks out of place.
I should feel safe.
Something quiet curls in my stomach.
