Sunlight slashed through the curtains, harsh and accusing, cutting across the room like a blade. Her alarm lay silent, a betrayal she had no time for. She groaned, rolling sharply onto her side, and slapped it off, muttering, "Figures."
Her eyes snapped to the phone. Ten missed calls from John. Ten. And the blinking notifications on the screen seemed to judge her. She bolted upright, blankets flying like wings, hair a chaotic halo around her head.
"No, no,... not today," she whispered, fumbling for her low-battery phone. No time for teeth, no time for sanity. She yanked a dress from the bottom of a box of unwashed clothes, grimacing at the smell but ignoring it. Pajamas half-tucked, one sock inside out, she grabbed her bag from the table, sending a precarious stack of notebooks tumbling to the floor.
Her eyes flicked to the door. She hurried forward, one foot skimming across scattered papers, the other almost catching on the edge of the rug. Her hand shot for the door handle-but the keys weren't there.
Without hesitation, she pivoted, tearing through table drawers, overturning shoes, scattering papers. Her movements were frantic but precise. She rifled through the trash bag in the corner, even gave the fridge a quick glance, muttering, Cushions flew, notebooks toppled
Finally, crouching low, she plunged her hand under the bed and snatched the keys. She held them up like a trophy and muttered, a sharp grin on her lips, "About time. Thought you'd grown legs."
Bag slung over one shoulder, she hurled herself toward the door, vaulting through the threshold, hair whipping around her face, one hand slamming the door shut behind her.
The car waited like a patient predator. She jumped in, slammed the door, muttering, "Alright... channel, let's see what chaos you've got for me today." Engine roared. Streets blurred. Heart hammering, mind racing-already bracing herself for the storm awaiting her.
weaving through the traffic like it was actively trying to slow her down. Horns blared, pedestrians darted, and her heart thumped like a drum in her chest.
Her phone rang again. John. She snatched it up, barely glancing at the screen. "Laura....Where the hell are you?!" He barked, with a sweet voice. A scream from the opposite lane made her glance sideways, but she shoved it aside.
"Hey, Jonny baby... I'm on my way! Hang tight!"
"Do you have any idea what time it is?!" John's voice was tight with panic. "If you don't get here for the show... Clara will swoop in and take your slot!"
"What the-? Oi! I'm coming! Don't let that punk take my seat!" She gritted her teeth, muttering under her breath, cursing Clara in a way that would make a sailor blush. Then she slammed the phone shut.
Traffic crawled. She cursed silently at every red light, every slow driver, weaving through the city with surgical precision and reckless speed, her mind already plotting her entry at the channel.
Minutes later, she reached the large gate of the channel, a sleek, modern complex rising like a fortress of glass and steel.
The name "Horizon TV" gleamed in brushed metal letters over the entrance, shining even under the dull morning sky. Guards nodded at her as she floored the accelerator a little more, the building reflecting the chaos of her arrival.
The complex sprawled behind the gate, towering windows, multiple levels, antennae and satellite dishes jutting out like claws, a hive of activity buzzing inside. Cameras swung, crew hustled, and the lobby below gleamed with polished marble and modern decor-a mix of intimidation and opportunity.
She parked roughly, grabbing her bag. Every step toward the building felt like a sprint through her own personal battlefield.
She yanked her ID from the bag and slapped it against the security panel. A soft beep, and the door slid open. No time to admire her small victory-she bolted toward the lift, adrenaline pushing her legs faster than reason.
Just as she stretched out a hand, the lift doors closed with a metallic finality.
Her chest heaving, she cursed under her breath and pivoted toward the stairs. Step after step, she sprinted, legs pumping, lungs burning, each echoing footstep against the concrete stairwell a drumbeat of urgency. The fluorescent lights flickered above as if mocking her, and she leapt a step, almost tripping over her own bag.
Finally, she burst into the lobby, pushing the door to the podcasting room with enough force to announce her arrival.
And there it was. Clara, live on air, perfectly composed. Her hair flawless, her smile polished. The contrast made Laura grind her teeth, her annoyance spilling into a funny grimace.
"Laura..."
Her eyes flicked. John, mid-stride, was rushing toward her.
She crossed her arms, glaring at him.
"It's nothing to do with me. Robert ordered Clara to take the slot!" John slammed his palm on the console, hammering emphasis right in front of her, making her flinch slightly.
Before she could respond, a woman appeared, clipboard in hand.
"Laura... Sir is looking for you. Told you to go to his cabin."
"Shit... I'm cooked," she muttered, flashing a funny, exasperated expression at John.
"So... this is the end for our department, huh?" John exhaled heavily, exaggerating the drama.
Laura rolled her eyes, pacing slightly, hands thrown in the air. "Ohh... what do I do..."
" Hey luo...you can do this..."
John tried to warm her up.
She exhaled sharply, exasperated, and spun-but he ducked and ran, dodging like a mischievous phantom.
She exhaled sharply, exasperated, and spun around, her bag bouncing against her hip, preparing herself to march into CEO Robert's cabin.
Through the glass door, she saw Robert pacing, phone pressed to his ear, She grabbed a small bottle of mouth fragrance from her bag, applied it quickly, took a deep breath, and tried to calm herself.
She approached the door, hand raised. Knock, knock.
Robert's sharp glance shifted to her, and with a subtle nod, he gestured, "Come in."
Laura stepped inside, face a mix of awkward smile and most expressive panic, every movement screaming, please don't kill me today. Robert hung up his call, slammed the phone on the desk, and fixed her with a piercing gaze. She swallowed hard.
"Look... I know I messed up... but-" she started, voice tight.
"But what?? Laura, you're the head of the Mystery & Investigation Unit! Aren't you the ashes of yourself?" Robert hissed. "The last story you gave... it was made up? God... I can't believe this!"
Laura straightened her back, a spark of pride daring to show. "Hey... at least I made it interesting," she said.
Robert's eyes narrowed. "So... you're proud, you idiot? A fake story, fake people... how much did you even pay for the actors in that documentary?"
Laura rolled her eyes, staring at the ceiling like it was nothing to do with her.
"Laura... your final warning has already passed. It's time. Go. Resign. Give your position to Clara. I think she can handle her department... and yours as well," Robert said, calm but cutting.
"What??" Laura's eyes nearly popped out.
"This department... it was made by me... not her! And she isn't managing her own department well, so how can she-" she argued, flailing slightly.
"She handles her department well... and is more responsible than you," Robert cut her off.
Laura's chest heaved. "Well... if that's the case... you can fire me and appoint her!" She spun dramatically toward the door, anger and defiance painted across her face.
Immediately, the regret hit. Shit... no, no... shouldn't have said that. Fire... me? Nooo... what do I dooo... stop me, stop me! Her steps faltered as she prayed to the universe, almost on the verge of tears, waiting for a miracle-him to call her back.
She reached for the door... and then:
"Laura..."
His voice, calm and precise, stopped her dead. She spun around so fast it was almost comical, but her eyes sparkled with relief and anticipation.
"You have two days to come up with an idea for the next documentary," Robert said, measured and calm.
Laura's face lit up. "Yesss! I will... I promise!" she cried, fists clenched in excitement.
"If you mess up this time... I am going to fire you myself," he added, deadpan.
"Ayee sir... got it!!" she said happily, throwing her bag over her shoulder, and danced out of the cabin, energy chaotic, triumphant, ready to conquer the day.
The hallway outside Robert's cabin was wide and cold, its glass walls reflecting her tiny celebratory dance like a thousand mirrors judging her. She quickly straightened her hair and wiped the grin off her face, slipping back into a mask of composure.
She plopped into her chair at the far end of the Mystery & Investigation Unit-a cluttered corner of the office with a mix of cluttered desks, stacks of files teetering like skyscrapers, half-empty coffee cups, and sticky notes fluttering under the hum of fluorescent lights. Screens blinked with paused documentary clips, news channels, and scattered tabs of research
John followed behind her, pushing up his glasses, balancing a stack of folders like a waiter.
"Two days?" he asked quietly.
She didn't look up. "Two days," she muttered, spinning a pen between her fingers.
"That's... impossible," he said, sitting across from her.
"Impossible is my brand, John," she shot back, but her voice lacked its usual spark.
The TV screens above them played live broadcasts from other departments-Clara's smug face smiling on one of them, her voice smooth as silk. Laura's jaw tightened.
She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper. "We're not going down like this. We just need a story. A real one. Something people can't look away from."
For a moment, silence fell. Then the chaos began.
John started rifling through old files, tossing papers with wild energy. "What about haunted elevators? Or-wait-missing cats in high-rise apartments? People love cats..."
Laura groaned, chewing the last bite of her half-eaten burger and taking a sip of black coffee. "John... cats? Really?"
"Or the janitor from three years ago, who swore he saw a ghost in the basement..." he added, oblivious to her exhaustion.
She slammed a hand on the desk, making the burger wobble dangerously. "You are a certified nightmare of ideas..." Her laptop tabs multiplied-forums, news archives, video clips, all dead ends. Coffee refilled. Burger crumbs littering the desk. Fingers flying across the keyboard.
Minutes stretched into hours. Every lead fizzled. Files piled higher, screens blinked with nothing, and the room's chaos mirrored their defeat. Finally, both slumped into opposite chairs, hair sticking in every direction, coffee mugs empty, burger half-forgotten, eyes wide with despair. Their faces screamed: it's all over.
A knock on the door made them flinch. Clara stepped in, holding her neatly wrapped lunch, a sarcastic smile plastered on her face.
"I heard you're about to get fired," she said, voice dripping with mock sympathy.
Laura's eyes narrowed, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Oh, Clara... your concern is overwhelming. Truly."
Clara tilted her head, grin widening. "Wouldn't want the great Mystery Unit to crumble because of one little... hiccup."
The tension crackled. Laura picked up her burger, waved it at Clara, muttering, "You better step back..."
Clara laughed and flicked a piece of lettuce toward her. "Step back? Or what?"
Laura gripped the half-eaten burger like a weapon, stepping closer, eyes narrowing. Clara mirrored her, grin sharp, but there was a flicker of nervousness now, just enough to betray her confidence.
"Step back, Clara," Laura warned, voice low, controlled... but deadly serious.
"Or what, Laura?" Clara hissed, trying to keep her smirk intact. "You'll throw that pathetic excuse of a burger at me?"
Laura's eyes sparkled dangerously. She raised the burger, arm pulling back slowly, deliberately. "Oh, I just might," she said, voice calm as a guillotine dropping.
Clara's grin faltered. Her eyes widened as she took an involuntary step back. "Wait... wait-don't!" she squeaked, holding her wrapped lunch like it might save her life. Her earlier bravado melted into panic, fingers trembling, voice cracking slightly as if she was suddenly aware that this was not a drill.
Laura's hand shot forward. The burger sailed through the air, perfectly aimed. Clara ducked at the last second, letting out a sharp yelp, stumbling back into her chair. The lettuce and sauce splattered across the desk between them.
"You... you crazy woman!" Clara shouted, eyes watering, hands flailing to protect her food.
Laura smirked, hair wild, coffee mug teetering on the edge of the desk. "Told you... I warned you."
"Oh dear lord..." John groaned, burying his face in his hands.
But the chaos didn't stop. Clara sprang forward, slapping Laura across the arm. Instinctively, Laura grabbed Clara's hair. Clara retaliate. Hands twisted, fingers tangled, hair-pulling escalating into a full-blown tussle.
The office transformed into a circus. Papers flew, coffee spilled, chairs toppled. Employees gathered, murmurs rippling through the room. Some whispered, some laughed, some whipped out phones, recording every chaotic second. The room was alive with tension and absurdity.
Suddenly, a thunderous voice cut through the chaos:
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE??"
Both women froze mid-tangle, eyes wide, hair wild, faces exhausted yet comically dramatic. They slowly stepped apart, glaring at each other, breathing heavily.
Robert stormed in, eyes blazing. "Laura! Clara! What is this nonsense?!"
" She's the one who-"
Laura pointed at clara for the excuse.
Robert's gaze snapped to her, sharp as a blade. "Laura! Not two days. ONE day. You have time till today midnight to come up with an idea. Understood?"
Laura's jaw dropped. "what?!"
Robert hissed, voice cold and cutting. "Yes. ONE day. And Clara," he added, eyes flicking toward her, "change that dress. We have work to do, not a fashion show."
Clara's lips twitched, but she stayed put, smirking faintly.
Robert spun on his heel, storming toward the office door, voice booming. "Everyone! Back to your desks! NOW!"
The employees scrambled silently, shuffling papers, bumping into chairs, avoiding eye contact, and hurrying back to their stations.
With a final glare over his shoulder, Robert disappeared into his cabin.
Clara, brushing sauce from her sleeves, shot Laura a triumphant grin. "Good luck," she said, dripping sarcasm.
Laura's hand shot to her slipper, ready to throw but Jonh held her from the back,
Clara's eyes went wide with alarm.
"Are you crazy??!"
she screamed, spinning on her heel and sprinting toward the door. She yanked it open and bolted down the hallway, slamming it behind her in a dramatic flourish, leaving Laura and John in the wreckage of the office battlefield.
Laura finally sank into her chair, messy hair sticking up like a halo of defeat, still breathing hard. John slumped beside her, exhaling, muttering, "Now... all perfect."
Their eyes met. Coffee-stained papers, half-eaten burgers, scattered files, and a war-torn office surrounded them. Both knew the truth: " we are cooked "
Will be continued -