The adventures of the storywriter: The rise of Mag

The hum of the heavy printing presses below echoed faintly through the glass walls of the executive floor as the board members filed out of the room, leaving behind a heavy, tense quiet.

Mag walked with slow, deliberate steps toward her corner office, her dark coat trailing slightly as she looked out over the rain-slicked Waterbury skyline. Behind her, a young junior editor—eager to prove himself, but trembling slightly under the weight of the room—hurried to catch up, his polished dress shoes squeaking on the marble floor.

“Uh... ma’am?” he asked, keeping a respectful distance as he followed her into the office. “Why... why don’t you want us touching him? If Terrex Corbin is really this big threat to the narrative of Mag Enterprises, we have the staff, the resources, the security—”

Mag stopped in front of her massive mahogany desk. She didn’t turn around immediately. The quiet stretched for three long seconds before she slowly pivoted, her dark eyes pinning the young man to the spot with a look that stripped away every ounce of his confidence.

“Because he’s not your story to touch, kid,” Mag said, her voice dropping into a smooth, gravelly register that made the room feel five degrees colder.

She walked over, placing a single hand flat on the mahogany desk, leaning in just enough to lock eyes with him.

“Terrex Corbin holds the pen that drew this entire city into existence. You send enforcers after a man like that, and you’re just a minor obstacle in a chapter he’ll rewrite by midnight. He’ll turn your brute force into his victory lap.”

A cold, razor-sharp smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth as she straightened up, crossing her arms.

“He thinks he’s the author,” she continued softly. “He thinks he can sit in this valley and decide when my arc ends. But when you want to take the pen out of a writer’s hand, you don’t break his fingers. You break his mind. You force him to sit across from you and watch every plot beat fail until he has nothing left to write.”

She pointed a gloved finger toward the glass wall, looking out toward the streets of Waterbury.

“So every reporter, every photographer, every staffer in this building keeps their eyes on him. You track his moves, you record his lines, and you print what I tell you to print. But the moment anyone in Mag Enterprises so much as scuffs his jacket...”

Mag stepped closer, her expression turning into a mask of total, unshakeable authority.

“...you won’t just be fired. I will write you completely out of the script before you hit the elevator. Understood?”

The young man swallowed hard, nodding rapidly. “Understood, Ms. Mag.”

“Good,” she said, turning back toward the rain-streaked window. “Now get out. I have a Chapter One to oversee.”