Exposure • h.s.

CHAPTER1.

^^ vibe of the story ^^
all credits to the creator

2019.
314 days before the deal.

"...And now let's have a look at the latest updates from the entertainment world," the distant television murmurs in a monotonous tone, its words blending into the room like a lullaby, so boring it could put even the bugs on the windowsill to sleep. It's October, and in New York the streets are already covered in a damp frost, nudging the nightlife indoors. The towering walls of the PR and Publishing agency I work for, DM Media Worldwide, greet me with the warmth of a long-lost mother's embrace.

"Mabel, could you send me the link for the meeting of tomorrow morning?"

Twelve minutes left until the end of the workday. Maybe thirteen, just enough time to catch the elevator and get away from here.

"Mabel?"

I start organizing the array of objects cluttering my desk—a notepad, some trinkets, a plushie shaped like a boiled egg, a magazine I use as an inspiration for the frivolous articles I have deal with daily, and—

"What the hell, are you even listening to me?"

Tony interjects abruptly, shattering my stream of thoughts, and for which even Joyce would have probably felt a tinge of envy.

"Sure. Can't you tell, Antonio?" I reply with a touch of sarcasm, forcing a wide, insincere smile across my face, hoping he catches onto my not-in-the-mood vibes.

"9:30 a.m. meeting, tomorrow. Link. Thanks." Tony is telegraphic, and hides behind his computer screen, tapping noisily against the keyboard and taking out his anger on the poor, unsuspecting keys.

So... there's another meeting tomorrow, I think to myself. Maybe it's a good time to call in sick.

Right after thinking this, I snap back to reality and remember that this company pays for my bills, and since I am (or should be) a professional writer, I should at least maintain some sort of professionalism, even with my pain-in-the-ass colleague.

"...Breaking news: 23-year-old Brett Kingston was found dead in his hotel room. Police say there are no signs of foul play. The room was locked from the inside, and there's no evidence of forced entry," the TV announcer reports, feigning sadness and emotion. Tony suddenly perks up and pays attention. The indistinct background noise from the television now turns into clear words, breaking the monotony of our routine work.

"That name sounds familiar. He was only 23... poor guy," Tony says with a heavy sigh.

"...A suicide note was found on the bedside table. Investigators believe he took his own life after a long battle with depression."

Damn. As terrible as a moment leading to such a tragic action can be, it should remain just that—a moment, a sharp pang amidst the vast ocean of emotions that define our human existence.

"I can't believe it. This news is absolutely devastating. I can't even imagine how much pain his friends and family must be going through," I say, genuinely saddened by the tragic information.

"Damn that singer," Tony snaps, his frustration evident. "That Styles guy. He's nothing but bad luck."

I give him a puzzled look, prompting him to explain further.

"Seriously, think about it. A few weeks ago, also a light technician got electrocuted right in front of him while working on the stage setup during soundcheck."

"Oh God, that must've been traumatizing," I say, taking a sip of water to process all the distressing news coming my way.

"For the technician, definitely," Tony points out, "but I doubt it affected the Styles guy much."