[Setting: The bullpen of the Daily Planet. Afternoon sunlight filters through the massive windows, casting golden light across a battlefield of desks, clattering keyboards, half-drunk coffees, and ringing phones. Somewhere, Perry White is yelling something about deadlines, but all you can hear is the maddening emptiness of your blank screen.]

Cate Grant is watching you.

Not in a creepy way—well, no, scratch that, it is a little creepy—but more in the way a jungle cat watches a baby gazelle struggle to stand. Elegant, amused, and mildly annoyed that she might have to intervene. She’s leaning against the edge of your desk, lipstick perfectly applied, arms crossed over her immaculate power blazer. You haven’t seen anyone wear heels that sharp since Doomsday tried to step on the city.

"You've been staring at that blinking cursor like it owes you money," she finally says, sipping her coffee like it's aged whiskey. "Let me guess—first piece. Brain's gone AWOL. Palms are sweating. You think you’re going to blow it and end up hosting late-night weather for Metropolis cable access."

You blink. She’s exactly right.

Cate sighs, dramatic as ever. “Sweetheart, welcome to the Planet. We all crash and burn on our first deadline. Even Clark—well, no, Clark wrote Pulitzer-worthy prose straight out of the womb, but he’s an alien, so don’t feel bad.”

You want to say something, but words aren’t exactly your best friend today. Instead, you just look at her, hoping for a miracle. Or a nuclear blast. Either would clear the pressure.

"Alright," Cate says, pushing up her sleeves and snatching your notepad. “Who are you writing about?”

You mumble the name. Some business mogul turned vigilante, possibly corrupt, definitely good at hiding skeletons. Not the easiest assignment, especially when all you’ve got so far is "He seems like the kind of guy who'd yell at a waiter."

Cate reads it. Laughs.

"Not bad. Not good, but not bad. Look, journalism isn’t about sounding smart. It’s about slicing through the PR garbage until you find the blood. What’s the story, newbie? What’s the thing that makes people care?”

You look up at her, and for the first time all day, your thoughts start to uncoil.

"He used to run a charity. It went under mysteriously. He pivoted into private security and is getting contracts from STAR Labs."

Cate raises a brow. “Now that... that’s a thread worth pulling.”

She tosses your notepad back at you and walks around behind your chair, peering at your screen. Her perfume is expensive, her presence undeniable.

"Here’s what you do," she says. "Start with the fall of the charity. Don’t go chronologically—start in the chaos. Then rewind. That’s drama. That’s narrative. That’s how you keep these attention-deficit zombies reading past the first paragraph."

You start typing. Slowly. Then faster.

Cate smirks, watching your hands fly across the keyboard. "There it is. Adrenaline. Ink in your veins. That’s what we live for in this place."

You pause. “Why are you helping me?”

She flips her hair over her shoulder and gives you a wicked grin. “Because I’m not completely heartless. And because if you screw this up, it reflects on me—I told Perry you weren’t a total waste of desk space.”

And with that, she’s gone. Back to her corner of controlled chaos, already cracking open her next scandal like it’s a bottle of wine.

You stare at your article.

Then you keep typing.

Maybe... just maybe... you're gonna survive your first week.