A JOURNALIST At tour
Sarah’s POV:
3 years later...
The auditorium of the StsrCrest School of Communications was filled with a low, rhythmic hum—the sound of hundreds of parents and students waiting for a name that, in my head, had already been written in stone.
I checked my watch. 10:00 AM. March 12th. My twenty-second birthday.
While most people my age were planning which club to hit or which cake to bake, I was sitting in the front row, my blazer pressed so sharp it could draw blood, waiting for the official confirmation of what I’d sacrificed everything for.
"And finally," the Dean’s voice boomed over the speakers, "for maintaining a flawless record, breaking three major local investigative leads before even graduating, and achieving the highest marks in the history of our licensing exam... our Student of the Year: Sarah."
The applause was a tidal wave, but as I walked up the steps to the stage, it felt oddly muffled, like I was listening to it underwater.
This was it.
The goal.
The dream.
I took the heavy crystal trophy and the official certification that declared me a full-time professional journalist. I was no longer an amateur with a "Ledger"; I was a licensed hunter of the truth.
But as I looked out into the crowd, my smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
There was an empty seat in the third row where a "Muscle Man" should have been scowling at his phone.
There was no "Calculator" in the back taking photos of the stage, and no "Bridge" waving a handmade sign.
My parents were there, beaming with pride, but the space where the Pack should have stood felt like a literal hole in the floor.
By 2:00 PM, the celebration was over, and the real work began. I wasn't just a graduate anymore; I was a mentor. To officially secure my first high-stakes professional project—an investigative piece on the city’s shifting power dynamics—I had to pass one final leadership test: teaching the ropes to a group of incoming juniors.
I stood at the head of the newsroom, my heels clicking against the linoleum. Four students sat before me, notebooks open, looking at me with the kind of wide-eyed terror I used to inspire in the people I interviewed.
"Journalism isn't about the story you want to tell," I said, my voice echoing the cold, professional tone I’d perfected over the winter. "It’s about the facts you can prove. You are here to learn how to track a lead without getting caught in the crossfire. If you can't handle the ethics of the hunt, leave now."
I handed out their first assignments, watching as they scrambled to keep up with my pace. I was good at this—too good, maybe. I knew how to command a room, how to spot a lie, and how to stay detached. But as I corrected a girl’s note-taking technique, I saw her flinch slightly, and a sudden, sharp memory of the resort flashed through my mind.
I sat back at my desk once they left, the silence of my new office settling in. My phone buzzed on the mahogany surface. I didn't even have to look to know it was the group chat. We were twenty-two now. We were professionals. We were successful. I had the trophy, the title, and the birthday wishes from my colleagues.
I looked at the crystal award on my desk, my reflection distorted in its sharp edges. I had passed the exam. I was the Student of the Year. But as I pulled up the "Cold Alliance" chat to see if anyone had remembered it was my birthday, the only thing I felt was the heavy, familiar weight of the crown I’d built for myself.
