The office reeked of stale coffee and faintly metallic printer toner, the air so thick with tension that it seemed to seep into the walls. Emil stood like a taut wire, his boss's voice was sharp, cutting through Emil's already frayed nerves.
"Drop it, Emil," the older man barked, slamming his palm on the desk with a resounding crack making the polished wood tremble. The sound reverberated in the small room, a final punctuation to his decision.
Emil stood there, fists clenched at his sides He could feel the pen in his shirt pocket shift with every furious breath he took. His dark eyes, usually bright with determination, were now clouded with frustration. "What do you mean, drop it? We've got everything. The leaked documents, the testimonies—hell, even the photos!" His voice rose, but it wasn't anger driving him. It was desperation.
The boss leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly but heavily. His graying eyebrows knit together as if he were choosing his next words carefully. "Listen, kid. You don't understand how these things work. We publish that article, and we're finished. The company, your job, my job—gone. How about I give you a few days off and a bonus for your work?" He managed a half-hearted smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You'll be paid well, Emil. You deserve it."
This scrouge doesn't even pay staff for overtime and you expect me to believe this random act of generosity. I can't believe it, he got paid off for sure!
He almost laughed—sharp and bitter. "Paid well? You don't even pay overtime, and now you're offering me hush money?"
His boss's lips thinned into a grim line, but he said nothing. Emil took a step forward. "This isn't just some celebrity scandal. This is a billionaire destroying lives, silencing victims—"
"And now he's silencing us," the boss coldly interrupted, his voice flat but firm. His eyes met Emil's, and for a moment, something vulnerable flickered there—regret? Defeat? It was gone as quickly as it came. "Welcome to the real world, Emil. Money talks."
"So, I'm supposed to what?" he spat, mocking. " 'Sorry, victims, corruption wins!' That's it?"
To his surprise, the boss didn't flare up as usual. Instead, he simply turned away, his shoulders sagging like a man crushed under the weight of an unspoken truth. His soft reply came laced with sadness.
"Always"
The words struck like a punch to the gut. A grim epitaph for every ideal he'd ever held. Emil staggered back a step, his thoughts a storm of disbelief and fury. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.
In the cramped restroom down the hall, Emil leaned against the sink, staring into the cracked mirror. His reflection stared back, a hollow-eyed man unraveling at the seams. His dark brown skin was slick with sweat, and his curly hair usually tamed now wild, framing his face like a stormcloud.
He gripped the edge of the sink, the cold porcelain biting into his palms. His phone buzzed incessantly in his pocket, but he ignored it. When he finally fished it out, the screen was lit with Sofia's name.
She answered on the second ring. "Hello?" Her voice was trembling, hesitant.
"Sofia," Emil began, his voice tight, "I know you're scared. I know they've—"
"I can't, Emil," she interrupted, her words rushing out like a dam breaking. "I thought I could, but… they came to my house. They showed me pictures—of my parents at work, my daughter in nursery." Her voice cracked, and Emil's chest tightened.
"Sofia, listen to me. They're trying to intimidate you. They know this story will—"
"Please, stop!" she cried, her voice breaking into sobs. "I can't do this. Don't call me again."
The line went dead, the silence that followed heavier than anything Emil had ever felt.
He stood there, staring at his phone, the weight of it all crashing down on him. The story was dead. Sofia was too scared to go through with publishing her interview. And he... he was powerless.
The fluorescent light above flickered, casting a ghostly pallor over his face. He took a deep breath, the pen in his shirt pocket pressing against his chest as if mocking him. A journalist without a voice.
He splashed cold water on his face, letting it drip down his jaw. When he looked up again, he saw something different in his reflection. Determination.
No, I'm not done.
"Not yet," he whispered defiantly.
The train home was crowded, the air thick with the smells of damp coats and human fatigue. Emil found a seat near the window and sank into it, his mind still spinning.
The train rattled and swayed, the hum of its wheels a dissonant backdrop to Emil's thoughts. He sat slouched against the window, the city lights flashing past in blurred streaks. It was beautiful, yet beauty conceals often the ugliest of truths.
From Across the aisle, a plump man in his mid-thirties wearing a hoodie and headphones scrolled hunched over on his phone. The screen's glow illuminated his face as he watched through a news video. Though the tinny sound was muffled, Emil could make out snippets of the report: "Billionaire ...charges dropped...lack of evidence…"
His jaw tightened, his fists clenching in his lap.
Billionaire Richard Clix
The man increased the volume of the video as it cut to an anchor sitting behind a desk, speaking in that polished, detached tone Emil had come to despise. "Sources confirm the decision comes after a last-minute lack of evidence presented by the prosecution. Critics are calling the move unprecedented and are raising concerns about—"
The man on the screen was replaced by stock footage of Richard: blonde slickback, blue eyes, sharp suit, smug grin, and the faintest air of invincibility. The kind of face that knew it could crush anyone and walk away unscathed.
"Of course," Emil muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. He didn't realize he'd said it out loud until the passenger glanced up from his phone, meeting Emil's eyes.
The man tilted his head, a questioning look on his face. Emil shook his head slightly, turning back to the window, hoping to avoid a conversation.
But the passenger wasn't done. "Crazy, huh?" he said, pulling down his headphones. His voice was loud enough to carry over the hum of the train. "Guy's been accused of, what, five different crimes now? Always walks away clean."
Emil didn't respond at first, but the man kept going. "It must be nice to have that kind of money." You can buy your way out of anything." He chuckled as if it were some kind of grim joke. Emil forced a bitter smile but said nothing.
The man shrugged before going back to his phone, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in Emil's mind. The video continued, now featuring a few protestors outside a courthouse, their signs calling for justice.
Justice. Emil almost laughed at the word. A concept upheld against the lesser of. His fingers brushed the laptop in his suitcase, the only weapon he had left.
I'll even the playing field, even if it's just once Richard Clix.
Filled with a strange mix of dread and determination. His boss's warning, the victim's retreat, the systemic corruption—none of it mattered anymore. The truth mattered. The world needed to see it, even if no one wanted to. He grabbed his laptop and opened the document that had consumed his life for weeks.
The headline stared back at him, and quickly he edited it, he planned on publishing it alongside the attempts to silence his journalistic integrity.
"Untouchable: Phillip Grant the Buyer of Justice."
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, his heart pounding in his ears. Emil had rewritten the article more times than he could count, refining every sentence, every piece of evidence. It was airtight—at least, as airtight as it could be without the victim's direct statement.
But he still had enough. Emails, financial records, testimonies from others who'd been silenced by Grant's machine. He'd followed the breadcrumbs, and they led to a trail so damning it made his stomach churn. Fraud, Blackmail, SA, Kidnapping, Assault, you name it, he did it.
He added a final paragraph:
"When the powerful can buy their innocence, the rest of us pay the price. Richard's story isn't unique; it's the blueprint. If this article disappears, if the words you're reading vanish from every platform tomorrow, you'll know why. But the truth doesn't die so easily. And neither do the voices of those brave enough to tell it. Sharing this story costs nothing but choosing to ignore it will cost you your future."
Emil sat back, staring at the screen. The cursor blinked at him, waiting.
You're gonna burn for this
a grim smile tugging at his lips. He could already imagine the fallout: lawsuits, threats, maybe even worse. But it didn't matter.
With a deep breath, he clicked Publish.
The article was live.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the first notification popped up on his screen. Someone had shared it. Another one followed. Then another, and soon even the passenger from before was entranced by it.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, the notifications coming faster now. Emil leaned back, watching as the article spread like wildfire.
The anxiety clawing at his chest didn't subside, but it was joined by something else—something sharper, stronger. Pride.
For once, the truth was louder than the lies.
But his triumph was short-lived when suddenly a bright light engulfed Emil. The passenger from before came back shouting and waving the article on his phone only to find a laptop in the same spot.