The first line took her three days.
Olivia sat cross-legged on her couch, laptop balanced on a cushion to keep the heat from scorching her thighs. Half-empty mugs ringed her like a failed pottery project. Printouts of her notes fanned across the coffee table, some pages dog-eared, others scarred with highlighter and angry marginalia.
The blinking cursor at the top of the document mocked her.
She’d written five different openings already. Deleted each. Too fawning. Too cynical. Too “this guy changed the world,” too “this guy is the devil.”
She needed a tone that matched reality: someone who’d crawled out of the same cracked sidewalks she had and then climbed into a glass tower with a god’s-eye view.
Her phone buzzed.
*Ma*: Did you eat?
She smirked.
*Olivia*: Does half a bag of pretzels count?
*Ma*: No. Order real food. And write like the world depends on it.
*Olivia*: Dramatic.
*Ma*: You’re my daughter.
Olivia laughed, dropped the phone onto the couch, and stared back at the screen.
Her fingers moved almost without her permission.
> From the fourteenth floor of TerraNova’s headquarters, trash looks like data.
She paused.
Not bad.
She kept going.
> On Jake Morrison’s tablet, a missed pickup on a South Side block is a red dot in a sea of blue. It’s a ticket marked “closed” when the bins on the ground are still overflowing. It’s a line item in a system that, according to city officials, is “performing within acceptable ranges.” > > “Point-four percent error margin,” Morrison says when asked about the latest version of TerraNova’s traffic model. “That’s within city standards.” > > Then he frowns. “But point-four is also enough to ruin someone’s day. So no, it’s not good enough.”
She read it back. It had his cadence. The stubbornness. The part of him that still got pissed off about a single dot on a map.
She wove in Leah’s quote about surveillance. The protest outside the building. The feeling of standing in his office and seeing the city shrink.
Paragraph by paragraph, the piece began to take shape.
She described the South Side community center, the kids, the grant that had arrived without a name attached.
She carefully didn’t connect the dots to TerraNova’s shell foundation. That was off the record. But she laid the groundwork—*someone with deep pockets remembers this block.*
She inserted a brief, clean central-bio section: *Age 32. Dropped out of the state university at twenty. Founded TerraNova in a borrowed office above a laundromat.*
She did not write: *Once fell asleep with his head in my lap while his code compiled.*
Her phone buzzed again. This time: *Raj*.
*Raj*: how’s the god complex profile?
*Olivia*: simmering.
*Raj*: laura wants a draft tomorrow, btw. she’s prowling.
Olivia checked the time. 8:13 p.m.
“Shit,” she muttered.
She’d promised Laura a rough by end-of-week. Tomorrow was end-of-week.
Her fingers flew faster.
She dropped in a section on TerraNova’s origin story. Sketched in broad strokes where other profiles had lovingly detailed each funding round.
She wasn’t interested in the usual founder mythology. The “scrappy kid in a hoodie wooing VCs.” She was interested in what he’d built and what it meant for people who’d never see his name except on some app their landlord told them to download.
She interviewed Leah again by phone, got more details on contracts, on opacity, on oversight boards that didn’t have teeth.
She called the director of the community center, got a wrenching quote about how “we’re grateful for any money, but I hate that we need a tech company to do what the city should be doing.”
Late into the night, she cross-referenced city procurement records with TerraNova’s contracts, traced the flow of dollars into sensors, servers, consultants.
When she finally hit what felt like the end—a closing paragraph that looped back to West 19th at 2 a.m., trash bins emptied on time now because a line of code had flagged them—her eyes burned.
She read the last lines aloud.
> The kid who grew up waiting for late buses and standing in the dark under broken streetlights now runs the platform that tells the city when those buses stall and those lights flicker. > > Whether that makes Jake Morrison the person best equipped to fix a broken system—or just the latest man to profit off it—depends on how closely the rest of us are watching.
She sat back.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was something.
She saved the draft, attached it to an email, and hovered over the “To:” field.
*Laura Chen*.
She dropped it in.
Subject line: **TerraNova rough draft – v1**
She hesitated another second, then hit send.
Immediately, her stomach flipped.
There. Out of her hands. Sort of.
She closed the laptop and flopped backward into the couch cushions, arm thrown over her eyes.
Her mind, unmoored from the structure of the piece, immediately drifted to Manny’s. To Jake’s face when she’d said, *There is no “us.”* To the way his hand had lingered on the check, knuckles tight.
Her phone buzzed yet again.
She groaned, grabbed it.
Unknown number, New York area code.
Not Jake’s. She’d already labeled that one, against her better judgment.
“Hello?” she said.
“Ms. Martinez?” A male voice, middle-aged, clipped.
“Speaking,” she said, sitting up.
“This is Deputy Commissioner Hart from the Mayor’s Office of Technology and Innovation,” he said. “We got a note from *Metro* that you’re working on a piece about TerraNova.”
Her spine straightened. “Yes,” she said cautiously.
“I’d like to offer you some time with the Mayor,” he said. “Or with me, if his schedule doesn’t sync. We’d appreciate the chance to share the city’s perspective.”
Her fingers tightened on the phone. *Appreciate* meant *worry about how you’ll spin it.*
“I’d welcome that,” she said. “Transparency’s good for everyone.”
He gave a noncommittal chuckle. “Great. I’ll have my assistant send over some slots.”
“Looking forward to it,” she said.
She hung up, mind already whirring.
She’d asked city hall for comment, of course. She’d expected a bland statement, maybe a written Q&A with some spokesperson.
A Deputy Commissioner offering face time meant two things: they took TerraNova seriously, and they were at least a little afraid of losing control of the narrative.
She rubbed her eyes.
“Sleep,” she told herself. “You can freak out in the morning.”
When sleep came, it was fragmented. Images of trash dots on a map blinking red. Leah’s megaphone. Jake’s hand on a napkin, syrup sticky on his thumb.
***
Laura’s email arrived at 7:03 a.m.
Olivia saw the notification when she blearily reached for her phone, dropped it on her face, swore, and rolled over to actually read.
> **Subject:** TerraNova draft – notes > > Liv— > > 1) This is damn good. > > 2) Don’t let that go to your head. > > 3) We need to talk through structural tweaks. You’ve buried some ledes and overplayed a couple quotes. City hall wants to weigh in (Hart’s office emailed last night), so we’ll have to fold that in. > > Come in early. 9 a.m. in my office. Bring coffee. I’ll pretend to be surprised. > > —L
Olivia exhaled, long and shaky.
*Damn good* from Laura was like a standing ovation from anyone else.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed.
Adrenaline replaced whatever was left of sleep.
In the shower, she mentally reordered sections. Maybe the protest belonged higher up. Maybe the personal background should be braided throughout instead of chunked.
She dressed in her usual armor—black jeans, ankle boots, a soft gray sweater that was just this side of looking like she’d tried. Hair in a low bun. Concealer under eyes. Mascara for courage.
On the subway, she reread her draft, making notes in the margins of the printed copy she’d stuffed into her bag.
A man leaned over her shoulder, eyes catching on a highlighted sentence.
“Damn,” he said. “You savaging someone on those pages?”
“Hopefully just their policies,” she said.
At the office, she dropped a coffee on Laura’s desk and slid into the chair opposite.
Laura flipped the draft open, red pen in hand.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s cut this thing to pieces and make it beautiful.”
***
They went line by line.
“This graf?” Laura said, tapping a paragraph in the middle. “‘Morrison’s critics say…’ Move it up. Don’t wait a thousand words to get to the surveillance debate.”
“You don’t think starting with the trash uptake grounds it enough?” Olivia argued. “Make it less abstract?”
“It does,” Laura said. “But you can ground *and* broaden. Give me the trash, then zoom out. Right now, it reads like two different pieces welded together.”
Olivia scribbled a note in the margin. *Move Leah up. Trim contract exposition.*
“And this,” Laura added, circling a line about Jake’s childhood apartment losing heat in winter. “‘The walls sweated when the radiators worked, and froze when they didn’t.’ Where’d you get that?”
“His brother,” Olivia said. “Off the record, but I got a similar description from a neighbor, so I kept it.”
“Good,” Laura said. “Just make sure you’re covered.”
They chewed through structure for an hour.
When they reached the ending, Laura sat back.
“This is solid,” she said. “The ‘Depends how closely we’re watching’ line? Nice. But I want more bite before it. A little more… teeth.”
“You want me to take a clearer stance,” Olivia said.
“I want you to take *a* stance,” Laura said. “Right now, you’re so careful to show all sides you’re drifting into ‘on the one hand, on the other’ territory.”
“This is my first big shot at someone with real power,” Olivia said. “If I come out swinging like I’ve decided he’s the Antichrist, it’s going to read like a takedown, not an analysis.”
“I’m not asking for a takedown,” Laura said. “But you don’t get extra points for neutrality if neutrality just lets the person with more power write the story.”
Olivia chewed on that.
“How hard can I go,” she asked, “given that this is part one of three? We’ve still got the policy piece and the infrastructure deep dive.”
“Plant your flag on the idea that no one—Morrison included—should be this central to the city’s functions,” Laura said. “You can admire his intent and still question the structure.”
“I do,” Olivia said. “Question it.”
“Then say that,” Laura said. “You’re not a stenographer. You’re a columnist with a reporting budget on this one. Use it.”
Olivia rewrote bits on the spot, shifting verbs, tightening phrases.
By the time they were done, her pages looked like they’d been attacked by a very determined red-ink spider.
Laura’s phone pinged.
“Hart’s assistant,” she said, checking the screen. “He can do 11:30 today.”
Olivia glanced at the clock. 9:57.
“I’ll prep,” she said. “Any specific angle you want from city hall?”
“I want to know if they think they’re in control, or if they’re just pretending,” Laura said. “Ask who owns the code. Ask what happens if the contract ends. Ask if they think there’s a plan B.”
“That last one’s going to piss him off,” Olivia said.
“Good,” Laura said. “Heroes are useful. Gods are not. We’re not writing scripture here.”
***
Hart’s office was high up in a municipal building that smelled like old paper and lemon cleaner. The kind of place where fluorescent lights hummed and everyone had a badge.
He was exactly what Olivia expected: late forties, good suit, the kind of haircut that cost real money but aimed to look low-maintenance. His handshake was firm. His smile was practiced.
“Ms. Martinez,” he said. “Call me David.”
“Olivia,” she said.
He waved her into a chair. His desk was mostly clean, save for a scattering of reports and a framed photo of two kids on a playground.
“So,” he said. “Jake Morrison.”
“TerraNova,” she corrected.
He inclined his head. “TerraNova,” he echoed. “And the city.”
He launched into his spiel—public-private partnerships, efficiency gains, modernization. He praised TerraNova’s responsiveness, its privacy safeguards, its “commitment to our values.”
Olivia listened, pen moving.
Then she slid the knife in.
“Who owns the code?” she asked when he paused for breath.
He blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“The platform,” she said. “The backbone. The algorithms that run the city’s traffic signals and monitor water usage and evaluate 311 complaints. Who owns that?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “TerraNova owns its proprietary software. The city licenses—”
“So if, in five years, the city decides it doesn’t like TerraNova anymore,” she cut in, “or finds a cheaper option, can you switch? Or are we locked into the system you’ve spent a decade building on top of theirs?”
He tugged slightly at his tie.
“We’d have to migrate data,” he said. “Which is never… trivial. But we maintain control over our own information.”
“That’s not what I asked,” she said gently.
He smiled a little tighter. “It’s not as simple as ‘yes’ or ‘no,’” he said. “Any complex system integration comes with switching costs. But those are weighed at the procurement stage. We believe the benefits outweigh the—”
“—costs,” she finished. “Sure. Do you have a plan if TerraNova goes under? Or if they decide to jack up their prices? Or if Mr. Morrison wakes up one day and decides he wants to move on to building smart cities on Mars instead?”
He chuckled. “I think Mr. Morrison is fairly committed to this planet,” he said.
“You’re avoiding the question,” she said. “Is there a Plan B that isn’t ‘hope the market provides a similar service at a competitive price’?”
He laced his fingers.
“We’re not naïve,” he said. “Of course we’ve considered risk scenarios. We have clauses in our contracts that require continuity of service. Escrowed code in case of bankruptcy. We’re not putting the city’s fate in the hands of one man’s mood swings.”
“Escrowed code,” she repeated. “So you *can* access the underlying software under certain conditions.”
“Yes,” he said. “Under strict ones.”
“And oversight?” she pressed. “Who’s monitoring what TerraNova does with the data it collects? Beyond the contractual language.”
He launched into a description of oversight committees, audits, third-party verifications. She jotted key phrases—“robust safeguards,” “multi-layered governance”—and underlined two words: *trust us*.
At the end, she asked, “Do you sleep well at night, knowing how much of the city flows through one platform?”
He smiled, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. “I sleep as well as anyone in this job does,” he said. “Which is to say: not much.”
She thanked him, shook his hand, and walked out into the cold.
On the way back to the office, her phone buzzed.
*Jake*: How’s the story? Do I need to start drafting an apology tweet in advance?
She rolled her eyes.
*Olivia*: Worry about your code. I’ll worry about my sentences.
*Jake*: You didn’t answer the question.
She hesitated, thumb hovering.
*Olivia*: You’ll see it when everyone else does.
Three dots pulsed. Then disappeared. Then pulsed again.
*Jake*: Fair.
She pocketed the phone.
She was not going to become his line-editor-by-text.
***
That night, after more structural edits and a second pass on language, she turned in Draft #2.
Laura’s reply came an hour later.
> **Subject:** Re: Draft 2 > > This is it. > > Clean up the transitions I flagged. Double-check your attributions. Run the quotes by fact-check. > > We’re slotting it for next Sunday’s feature. > > Buckle up. > > —L
Her stomach flipped.
Next Sunday.
Nine days.
She checked the date on her phone. TerraNova’s launch was set for the Thursday *after* that.
Perfect storm.
Her brother texted.
*Marco*: Ma says u wrote something that’s going to make the mayor cry. should i buy popcorn?
*Olivia*: you talk to ma more than I do.
*Marco*: she feeds me. whats this thing abt jake? she’s pretending she doesn’t care but she keeps bringing him up.
Olivia sighed.
*Olivia*: I’m writing about his company. Not him. Okay, also him.
*Marco*: he still cute?
She tossed the phone onto the bed.
Her silence apparently said enough, because a minute later:
*Marco*: lol try not to let him make you stupid again, sis.
She closed her eyes.
Past Olivia had been many things. Impulsive. Idealistic. Stubborn.
Stupid?
Maybe.
But not in the way he meant.
She opened a blank side document. Titled it: **Notes – Personal (Not For Print).**
Beneath it, she typed:
- I do not owe him forgiveness. - He does not owe me suffering. - We are not twenty anymore. - If we start anything now, it will not be a replay. It will be something else. - That might be worse. - That might be better. - Focus on the story.
She stared at the list until the words blurred.
Then she closed the doc, turned off the light, and lay down.
In the dark, her phone buzzed one more time.
She groped for it blindly.
*Jake*: Off the record unsolicited opinion: You’re a better writer now than you were at 19. And you were already terrifying then.
She snorted softly.
*Olivia*: Are you hacking my drafts??
*Jake*: No. Carla showed me a piece you did on the subway cleaners. I assume this one’s going to be even more brutal. Can’t wait.
*Olivia*: Masochist.
*Jake*: Only when the person holding the pen knows where to cut.
Heat prickled under her skin.
She typed, deleted, retyped.
*Olivia*: Go to sleep, Morrison. You’re not charming.
*Jake*: Debatable. Good night, Liv.
She stared at the name.
Wrote nothing.
Put the phone face down and let the dark settle in.
Sleep came eventually, full of dreams where trains arrived exactly on time and she missed them anyway.
---