Grace woke up sweating.
The small fan at the center of her ceiling had stopped spinning for hours after the power cut.
She groaned while pushing the thin bedsheet aside rubbing her tired eyes
She sat up on her small bed. Her eyes were heavy and her mind restless.
Sleep didn't give her peace anymore
She remembered the echo f Donald Cole's voice at the press conference. The arrogance in his tone, the coldness in his stare. She hated how vividly she remembered him.
"Focus," she muttered. "You've got work to do."
Her phone lay dead beside the pillow. No power again. She sighed and grabbed her battered notebook, and stared at the last word she had written before dozing off:
Bernard?
Who was Bernard? And why did other journalists sound scared even mentioning him?
She shut the book, trying to shake off the unease crawling up her spine.
"It's probably just gossip," she told herself but deep down, she didn't believe that.
Grace rushed through her morning routine and locked her metal door behind her.
The noisy street was filled with hawkers and impatient drivers honking endlessly.
She walked down the street, then hailed a cab.
At the office, the newsroom buzzed with chatter, keyboard tapping, and phones ringing.
She had barely settled in when her editor, Mr. Paul, sent for her. She stood up immediately, walking into his office.
He didn't look happy. His shirt was rumpled, tie loosened, and he looked tired, though it was morning.
"Grace," he said as soon as she stepped in. "Sit."
He rubbed his forehead.
"I've been getting calls," he said, finally meeting her eyes. "People are upset about your little stunt at the press conference."
Grace's eyes lit up. "That means they were the right questions, sir. If people aren't comfortable, it means I touched something real."
"This isn't about truth!" he snapped, slamming a folder shut. "This is about survival. Cole Oil isn't a story, Grace. It's a wall you can't climb. Do you want this paper shut down? Or your name blacklisted?"
Grace leaned forward, her tone calm but firm.
"Sir, people are dying. Villages are being poisoned. If we keep quiet, aren't we part of it?"
Mr. Paul's expression softened, only for a second.
"You're young. You still believe courage fixes everything." He sighed. "But courage gets people killed here. Drop it, Grace. Write about fuel queues or tomato prices. They won't send hitmen over that."
He turned back to his computer, signaling the conversation was over.
Grace clenched her fists under the table, forcing a small smile.
"Yes, sir."
But inside, her fire burned stronger. She stood, walked out, and muttered under her breath,
"You can silence others, but not me."
At her desk, she flipped open her notebook again. Her eyes locked on the name Bernard.
She reached for her recorder to replay yesterday's audio, but she froze.
The device's red light was already blinking. Recording.
She hadn't pressed it.
Someone had.
Grace's breath caught. The newsroom suddenly felt colder.
She turned to see if she could see who did but everyone concentrated on the work
She slowly reached out to stop the recording, but a new file name flashed on the screen:
"Stop chasing shadows."