Chapter 3  Recruiting the Hot-Blooded Intern

Behind the counter, the espresso machine screeched, drowning out the gray noise of Nova City's morning rush.

Lina Rossi sat in the back, watching the street through the rain-streaked glass. Across from her, Marvin James—the Herald’s star-eyed intern—was busy murdering a plastic straw with his teeth. He was halfway through a ten-minute rant about his rent hike and Perla’s impossible deadlines.

"Three features on the gala, Lina. Three!" Marvin hissed, his eyes wide with caffeine. "How many ways can I describe Councilman Blankenship’s tie without blowing my brains out?"

To anyone else, it was just a mentor comforting a burned-out rookie. Lina didn't look at him. She looked at the reflection of the door. No black sedans. No heavy shadows in suits.

"Welcome to the meat grinder, kid," Lina said, her voice flat. "Perla doesn't want reporters. She wants stenographers who don't ask questions."

"I didn't go to J-school for this," Marvin sighed, dropping the mangled straw. "I want to do the real stuff. You know, like the Pier 7 piece."

Lina leaned in. The table was sticky with spilled sugar. "Real journalism in this city gets you a one-way ticket to a morgue, Marvin. It gets men following you home. It gets your phone tapped and your life dismantled."

Marvin stopped fidgeting. He looked at the gray hollows under Lina’s eyes. "Is that why you disappeared? Are you in trouble, Rossi?"

"I’m radioactive," Lina said. "Sit here much longer and you’ll start glowing too. So I’m going to give you a choice. You can finish that ice water and go back to writing about caviar, or you can help me."

Marvin swallowed hard. His eyes darted to the exit, then back to Lina. The fear was there, but so was the itch—the one that makes people do stupid things for a headline. "What do you need?"

"I need to get into the Herald archives. Underground. Perla swapped the codes, but the physical locks on the service stairwell are old. I need a distraction at the front desk to pull the night shift away for five minutes."

"You want me to... help you break into our own building?" Marvin’s voice cracked. "Lina, they’ll blacklist me. I’ll be delivering pizzas by Monday."

"You won't be breaking in. You're an intern with a late-night deadline and a craving for overpriced takeout," Lina corrected him. She didn't look at him as she slid a folded, grease-stained napkin across the table. Inside was a map of the basement and a frequency for the security walkies.

"Midnight," she said, her tone as casual as if she were editing his lead paragraph. "When your delivery guy shows up, make sure the lobby guards are busy with a 'spilled coffee' incident or a broken elevator. Channel four on the radio."

Marvin stared at the napkin. His hand trembled as he reached for it, palming the paper and shoving it deep into his pocket. 

"Got it," he whispered.

"Good. Don't be late," Lina said. She grabbed her coat and stepped out into the drizzle, leaving Marvin alone with his melting ice and a very dangerous secret.

The rain wasn't a "relentless drizzle"—it felt like needles stabbing Lina’s neck. She pressed against the wet brick of the alley, ice water trickling down her collar.

She tapped the cheap Bluetooth earpiece. "Marvin. Talk to me. Don't die on me now."

The breathing on the other end sounded like a broken bellows. "I can't do this, Rossi. My palms are soaking the sofa. Stan’s just sitting there... he’s got a taser. It looks big enough to fry me."

"It’s a taser and a thermos, Marvin. He’s a retired mall cop, not a Navy SEAL." Lina hissed, trying to anchor the kid’s sanity. "Watch the elevators. Don't stare at the side door. The more you look at it, the more you look like a thief."

"I feel like my forehead says 'Guilty' in neon..."

"You're a sleep-deprived intern waiting for carbs. Own it. Stick to the plan."

11:58 PM. A beat-up scooter backfired at the corner, sounding like a gunshot.

"Pizza's here. Move."

Inside the lobby, a guy in a neon poncho burst in, boots squeaking like a dying animal on the marble.

"Hey! Order for Floor 50! P. Shaw!" the driver bellowed, his Brooklyn accent shattering the quiet.

"Building’s closed. Leave it on the desk," Stan didn't even look up.

"Leave it? I rode across the city for three bucks tip! It says 'Personal Delivery' right here!" The driver started slapping the counter.

"I said leave it!" Stan stood up, moving away from the monitors to argue.

Now.

Lina bolted. Her boots hit the wet pavement with a muffled slap. She jammed the copied key into the service lock—her hands were shaking so hard it took two tries to find the slot.

Click.

She slipped inside, hugging the wall.

"Stan, look, maybe Shaw ordered it before she left. She's been a nightmare lately," Marvin chimed in, shoving his glowing phone screen into the guard's face to block his view. "Look, the address matches..."

Lina stayed low, scurrying into the security booth like a stray cat. The desk was a mess of half-eaten sandwiches and ash. She saw it: the white plastic card on a coiled lanyard.

She snatched it. The plastic was warm, smelling of the guard’s cheap tobacco.

She didn't linger. She backed out, heart hammering against her ribs, and dove into the stairwell.

"Alright, fine! Leave the damn pies and get out!" Stan’s muffled roar was cut off as the fire door hissed shut.

Lina leaned against the cold concrete, gasping.

"Card secured, Marvin. Take the pizza and get back to your desk. Don't call me again."

"Oh god..." Marvin sounded like he was going to cry. "I almost threw up on him. Good luck, Rossi."

The line went dead. Lina started the descent.

Sub-level three. The air was dry, cold, and tasted of old paper and neglect. A massive steel door stood before her, the red sensor glowing like an angry eye.

She swiped the card.

Beep. Green.

The door groaned open with a heavy metallic sigh, revealing a lightless void—the Herald’s cemetery of secrets. Lina pulled the brass key from her boot, her fingers tight on the cold metal. She was in the dark now, and the truth was somewhere in the dust.