I hadn’t expected much from the assignment—just a quick profile on a disgraced journalist trying to stay out of the spotlight. My editor thought it’d be a juicy human interest piece. Redemption stories always sold. But when I walked into the tiny coffee shop on the outskirts of D.C., I saw him sitting alone, nervously stirring a lukewarm cappuccino, and everything shifted.

Stephen Glass looked nothing like the caricature painted by headlines. His eyes—still sharp, still searching—met mine across the room. There was a hesitation in his smile, like he was bracing for judgment. But I wasn’t there to crucify him. Not entirely.

“Stephen,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” he interrupted, rising. “You wrote that piece about the Pentagon whistleblower last fall. It was… impressive.”

His voice was soft, still carrying that boyish charm that once made him so dangerous. And maybe, just maybe, so magnetic.

I sat down across from him, flipping open my notebook, but his gaze lingered a second too long—curious, maybe even cautious.

“You’re not going to make me the villain again, are you?” he asked, half-smiling.

“Depends,” I said, smiling back. “Are you still lying?”