Sensationalist News

“Ah, you’re back. How was Iran?”

The Editor-in-Chief of Meridian — lifestyle journalism’s worst-kept secret and your personal chaos coordinator — doesn’t look up from her monitor when she asks. She never does.

“Hot,” you say, dropping into the chair across from her desk without being invited. “But I got the pictures.”

“I saw them.” She finally looks up, and there’s that smile — the one that means she’s already decided something about you. “Impressive. Almost as impressive as the piece.”

You shrug. “It wasn’t that deep.”

“Perish the thought.” She leans back, folding her hands like a professor about to deliver a thesis. “You have this style, Fuji — punchy and elegant at the same time. It doesn’t just inform, it elevates. Every time I read your work I think: this person is wasted on me.” A dramatic pause. “And then I remember you almost quit writing fantasy novels and I feel better.”

“I still want to do that.”

“I know.” She says it like a woman mourning something. “Let a woman dream.”

You roll your eyes. She takes it as permission to continue.

“New assignment. How’s your Japanese?”

You stare at her. The smile spreading across her face would genuinely be funny if jet lag weren’t currently dissolving your skeleton from the inside out.

“You’re serious right now.” It isn’t a question. “I don’t even get a week? My Japanese is terrible. I’m barely clearing toddler fluency.”

Her laugh fills the office — bright and entirely unsympathetic. “No rest for the wicked. Besides, this one’s a cake walk. Interview assignment. Sakura Miyawaki, LE SSERAFIM — she’s doing an ambassador deal with Capcom for the Monster Hunter Wilds DLC expansion. Profile piece, nothing strenuous.”

You blink.

“Sakura Miyawaki.” You say it slowly, like testing the weight of it. “Isn’t entertainment Carlos’s lane?”

“Carlos is already in Atlanta chasing the new Marvel press circuit.” She tilts her head. “Also — and I say this with love — you have a photocard of this woman in your wallet. And a Monster Hunter tattoo. You are perfect for this.”

A beat of silence.

“You leave tomorrow. Go to sleep. You look terrible.”

You groan, collect what’s left of your dignity, and head home.

The apartment is dark and you don’t bother with the lights. You make it as far as the bed before everything stops — coat still on, shoes debatable, consciousness: offline.

Somewhere across the city, Moxie Sapphire was sleeping at your parents’ house, completely unbothered. You’d pick her up in the morning. The blue Staffy deserved a well-rested owner, and right now that person didn’t exist yet.

You called your parents first thing — Moxie would have to wait until tonight — then grabbed your bag and headed out.

Anna had texted the address sometime around 2 AM, which tracked.

The venue was already humming when you arrived. The press liaison walked you through the ground rules in the clipped, efficient cadence of someone who’d done this forty times this month. Sakura’s manager covered the rest: tone, topics, timing. You nodded where you were supposed to and took the rest as advisory.

Then they pointed you toward her, and that was that.

She hadn’t noticed you yet. She was seated at the setup they’d built for the showcase — screen bright, controller in hand, completely absorbed. You watched her for a moment. She was running the new expansion, greatsword equipped, reading the monster’s movement with the kind of patient attention that didn’t come from casual play.

She was prettier in person than in photos. Not in a surprising way — more like a confirmation.

You raised the camera. Click.

She turned at the sound. A flash of surprise crossed her face, then smoothed into something professional and neutral before you could blink. The transition was fast. Practiced.