Trimmm trimmm
The newsroom phone had been ringing incessantly since late afternoon—like a cursed insect that refused to die.
Trimmm trimmm
No one flinched anymore. Everyone knew who it was. The same as always. That shameless director from that so-called academy, pestering the editorial team day after day with his ego crises and delusions of grandeur.
But someone had to answer.
And that someone was him.
The man who ran the whole show. Who stamped his name on the front page as the lead editor. Who shaped headlines with the precision of a surgeon and the cruelty of a butcher.
Louis Hoffman.
Twenty-three years in the game.
Dissecting the rotting corpses of scandals and tragedies.
A professional vulture—with a sharp nose for filth and profit.
"Goddammit... I already told you, didn't I?" he growled as he picked up, cigarette between his fingers, ash falling onto the cluttered desk. "We're not running anything about your academy…"
He pulled the phone away from his ear, face twisting at the shouting on the other end.
"What? Hm... An exorcist wrecked your academy?"
His eyes widened. A gleam flashed across his gaze. A slow, predatory smile crept in.
"Did anyone die?"
Silence. Hesitation.
"Hm... right. Right. Either way..."
He yanked open a drawer, pulling out a crumpled checkbook scrawled with old notes.
"Your info's worth something..." he murmured, practically salivating. "If you've got proof... photos... we can spin a hell of a story."
He inhaled deeply, almost panting with anticipation.
"The governor might be willing to pay to make this... disappear. Then your damages will be, let's say, handled."
More silence. A hesitant whisper on the other end.
"No, no... you can take a photo of the record. Use another device. There. It won't flag as fake news."
And with a sharp click of the receiver and the scent of nicotine thick in the air,
Louis Hoffman typed the headline.
Yami Yamasaki would be tomorrow's front page.