Rain hammered against the Tribune’s stained glass as Onai Terys stormed through the revolving doors—twenty-five, sharp-heeled, coat dripping, ambition radiating like perfume. She moved past cubicles with surgical grace, eyes trained on the city editor's office. The newsroom energy shifted; every head turned at the flurry of her arrival. Rivan noticed her immediately, mouth quirking into a smirk as he leaned back in his chair, crime notes scattered around him like fallen leaves.

Elladyn Mazaire watched Onai with wariness and awe. She tapped at her keyboard, stealing glances at Rivan’s easy confidence, the way he tracked the newcomer—half respect, half challenge. Hadris Keil, ever the cold observer, stood at the archive window, expression unreadable behind rimless glasses. He’d heard of Onai: ambitious, calculating, already a legend at twenty-five for breaking parliamentary scandals. Now she was here, and the air grew charged.

“Politics is mine,” Onai announced, claiming her desk with a stack of battered notebooks. For a moment, her eyes locked with Hadris’s—gray ice against flint. Silences stretched dangerously. “We’ll see,” Hadris murmured, voice all clipped steel. Onai’s lips twitched in a ghost of a grin; people who underestimated her always regretted it.

Rivan wheeled his chair over, flashing a lazy smile. “Welcome to the beat.” Underneath, his mind raced—he recognized the shape of ambition and hurt, and knew both could become weapons. “Thanks, Rivan,” Onai replied, gaze lingering too long. Heat flickered, unnoticed by most, but not by Elladyn, who felt inexplicable jealousy coil low and hot in her belly.

Deadline crept nearer, shadows deepening as the office emptied. Rivan and Ella huddled over a folder marked CONFIDENTIAL, sifting through police reports and coded expenses—a tip about corruption. Rivan’s hand brushed hers as they turned a page, the touch lingering. “You okay?” he whispered. Ella hesitated, wanting to say more than she could. The ghosts between them pressed close.

Across the atrium, Onai sat hunched at her desk long after others left, hair falling in dark waves to hide her shaking hands. She scrolled through damning emails, eyes burning with both anticipation and dread. Hadris lingered by the windows, watching her in the glass’s warped reflection. His reputation was made of impenetrable armor, but Onai’s vulnerability—so carefully hidden—rattled him.

Onai rose suddenly, striding toward the archive vault. Hadris followed, silent as a shadow. The stacks were cool, lit in thin strips of yellow light and the scent of old ink. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said, voice pitched low. “The story’s not worth your life.” Onai faced him, chin tilted defiantly, but her breath trembled. “I can handle it. I always do.”

Their eyes clashed—resentment, longing, pride. Nothing was ever admitted with words. Instead, Onai’s hand fisted in Hadris’s lapel, dragging him into a kiss fierce with need. He crushed her against the shelves, mouth hungry, hands knotting in her hair and at her waist, devouring the fear between them. Onai gasped into his mouth, arching closer, nails biting his neck. The world outside vanished; only the furious heat of each other remained.

Fingers fumbled with buttons, breathless curses lost to the hush. Hadris’s hands mapped the line of her thighs, thumbs pressing bruises into skin as Onai moaned against his lips, desperate to feel anything but the constant ache of inadequacy. His restraint snapped—he lifted her, shoulders pressed hard into the metal shelving, clothing rucked up around her hips. Every kiss, every bite was a battle and a promise: I see you, I want you—even if neither could ever admit it in daylight. Their bodies tangled and shuddered in the half-dark, messy and raw, every gasp vibrating with need and the terror of losing control.

Afterward, Onai’s laugh was jagged, echoed by Hadris’s trembling exhale. “We are a disaster,” she whispered, chest to chest, heart wild. “But you make me feel—” She broke off, unwilling to finish. He pressed his forehead to hers, gentler now. “Alive?” he offered, and her answering nod was almost shy.

Across the newsroom, Rivan stared at a new email, face drained of color. An attached photo burned on the screen—Rivan, Ella, and a man from years ago. The victim. Beneath it, words in saber-slash font: “Ready to confess?”

He looked up, eyes wild. Ella glanced over, catching the terror in him, her pulse skittering with dread.

To be continued...