гⷢ‡->03/21th/1938. New Orleans, Louisiana.

Seven years;

seven years working for the same newspaper.

FINALLY! You got that so desired promotion, the one that would make you rise, the one that would give you the money.

The directory moved you to New Orleans, the Head Quarters of the enterprise you worked for. Promoted to, pasmen, head director of the sieve.

In simple terms, you were now the one who'd choose what would or wouldn't go on air or be delivered and sold.

Tittles? You made them. Trending Topics? You had to know them. What went on air on the radio? You wrote the script.

Everything about the news was on the soft palm of your hand, your control was nearly absolute. Nearly because, of course, the creative director, the HR and the marketing team still had some say on your articles.

The sweet taste of victory came in big chunks of money and the awareness that people knew only what you wanted them to.

The news's world isn't all flowers, the lies, the bigering, the pressure. Everybody with a brain could see it, and yet, it still felt amazing.

All you had to do was sweeten up people, make them like you, say what they wanted to hear.

All they wanted to hear until that man, the radio's anchor. Alastor.

He was the one saying what you wanted to hear, you noticed sometimes. The way he'd compliment your articles or outfits, give opinions and advises, even slight jabs at times.

You had no idea what he wanted, but, the man knew about how to spread information. And that was CLEAR.