Warnings & Close Calls

The newsroom buzzed with its usual chaos—reporters on calls, the furious clatter of keyboards, and the ever-present scent of cheap coffee. But for Song Rui, the noise barely registered.

Her mind was elsewhere.

On the door, she had hesitated to open last night. On the message that still lingered on her phone. On the fact that she was getting too close.

She had spent the entire night refining her article, piecing together the final puzzle. Lin Cheng wasn't just corrupt—he was dangerous. And now, she had the evidence to prove it.

But before she could publish, there was one last obstacle.

Her editor-in-chief, Xiang Zhen.

Xiang Zhen's office was lined with shelves overflowing with case files, journalism awards, and unopened bottles of expensive whiskey—gifts from people trying to bribe him, all left untouched. He was a man who had seen everything, exposed more than his fair share of scandals.

And yet, as he stared at the file in front of him, his expression was unreadable.

"This is solid work, Rui." His fingers tapped the paper lightly. "Thorough. Damning."

Song Rui folded her arms. "Then let's print it."

Xiang Zhen didn't move.

"Do you know how many times people have tried to bring down Lin Cheng?" he asked. "And do you know where they are now?"

Song Rui knew.

Some had gone missing. Some had lost their careers. Some had recanted their stories so quickly it was clear they had been forced to.

But none of them had proof like she did.

"I'm not them," she said firmly.

A muscle in Xiang Zhen's jaw tightened.

"No, you're worse," he muttered. "Because you think being right will protect you."

"It should."

He let out a dry laugh. "That's not how the world works, Rui."

She met his gaze, unwavering. "Then I'll change the world."

Xiang Zhen sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Listen to me carefully. You keep pushing, and Lin Cheng will push back. Hard. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Song Rui's fingers curled into fists.

She understood perfectly.

"Are you telling me to drop the story?" she asked, her voice quieter now.

He shook his head. "I'm telling you to be smart. Play the long game. Make sure you have a way out before you set this bomb off."

She exhaled slowly.

She knew Xiang Zhen wasn't trying to scare her for no reason. He had been in this industry too long, and seen too many people destroyed by the very truth they sought to expose.

But fear had never stopped her before.

And it wasn't going to stop her now.

After leaving Xiang Zhen's office, Song Rui found herself staring at an old case file tucked between stacks of old newspapers. The name on the folder made her pulse spike.

Li Wen.

Li Wen had once been a rising star in investigative journalism, a fearless reporter who had come dangerously close to exposing the same corruption Song Rui was chasing now. Four years ago, she had uncovered a scandal that linked Lin Cheng to offshore accounts, money laundering, and even disappearances.

Then, overnight, Li Wen vanished.

Her apartment was found abandoned, her belongings left untouched. Her phone was disconnected. The police ruled it as a "personal decision to disappear," but no one believed it.

Song Rui swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe evenly. Li Wen had taken the same path she was walking now—and she had never been seen again.

But Song Rui refused to let history repeat itself.

That night, Song Rui was more cautious than usual.

She switched cabs twice, made sure she wasn't being followed and only took out her laptop once she was safely locked inside her apartment.

But no matter how careful she was, she felt it.

Someone watching. Waiting.

At exactly 11:32 PM, her phone vibrated.

Unknown Number: "Last warning. Drop the story."

Her stomach twisted, but she didn't reply.

Instead, she did what she had always done.

She kept writing.

Because if she stopped now—if she let fear win—then Lin Cheng had already won.

And Song Rui refused to let that happen.

An hour later, exhaustion forced her to take a break. She stretched, rubbing her eyes, and reached for the cup of tea she had made earlier.

But the moment her fingers touched the mug, a chill ran down her spine.

It was cold.

She had made the tea less than an hour ago.

She set the cup down slowly, scanning the room. The windows were locked. The door was bolted. Everything looked the same.

And yet, she knew—someone had been here.

A single envelope sat on her coffee table, one she hadn't placed there. With trembling fingers, she picked it up and opened it.

Inside was a single note.

"You're running out of time."

Her breath hitched. This wasn't just a warning.

It was a promise.