The San Francisco skyline glittered beneath a bruised, late-afternoon sky as Adan Beckett touched down on the rooftop of *The San Francisco Post*. His boots hit the gravel with a soft crunch, the wind whipping at the edges of his blue and white super suit. Just minutes ago, he’d yanked a notorious A-12 gangbanger and his accomplice, Esperanza Gonzalez, out of a botched bank robbery—literally, mid-heist, with bullets pinging off his chest like pebbles. Now, his heart still thrummed with adrenaline, but he couldn’t linger in hero mode. Not here.
With a flicker of thought, his suit shimmered and morphed, the sleek alien fabric folding into a crisp charcoal suit and tie. His platinum blonde hair darkened to a mousy brown, his piercing blue eyes dulled to a mundane hazel. The chiseled jawline softened just enough to scream “forgettable.” Adan Beckett, nerdy reporter, was back. He adjusted his tie, pushed up his fake glasses, and headed for the rooftop door, the city’s hum a distant pulse below.
Descending the stairwell, he stepped into the chaotic hive of the newsroom. Phones shrilled, keyboards clacked, and voices overlapped in a frenetic symphony. The air buzzed with a singular obsession—everyone was talking about *him*. Or rather, the mysterious hero who’d swooped in and stopped the robbery. Adan kept his head down, weaving through the maze of cubicles, but he couldn’t help the smirk tugging at his lips as snippets of wild speculation reached his ears.
“—swear to God, he flew! Like, straight out of a comic book—”
“—heard he punched through a vault door. A *vault door*! Who even does that?”
Adan sidled up to Marcy, a junior editor with a penchant for conspiracy theories, who was gesticulating wildly over a lukewarm coffee. “Hey, Marcy, what’s all the commotion about?” he asked, feigning ignorance as he leaned against her desk, arms crossed.
Marcy spun on him, eyes wide with manic excitement. “Are you kidding me, Beckett? Where’ve you been, under a rock? Some guy in a flashy blue suit just stopped a bank robbery downtown. Flew in, took out two A-12 thugs like they were paper dolls, and vanished. People are saying he’s not even human!”
Adan raised an eyebrow, pushing his glasses up with a finger. “Not human? Come on, Marcy. Next you’ll tell me he’s from Mars.”
“Laugh all you want, nerd boy,” she shot back, jabbing a finger at him. “I’ve got sources saying he’s got powers. Like, legit super strength. You gonna write this off as a PR stunt?”
Before he could reply with another dry quip, a voice cut through the din like a blade—sharp, commanding, and dripping with impatience. “Beckett! My office. Now.”
Adan’s smirk faltered as he turned to see Isabella Flores, the editor-in-chief, standing at the threshold of her glass-walled domain. Her black pixie cut, tipped with streaks of fiery red, framed a face that could stop traffic—or a newsroom—in its tracks. Dark eyes pinned him from across the room, her crimson blazer hugging a frame that radiated authority. She didn’t wait for a response, just turned on her heel and strode back into her office, expecting him to follow like a scolded pup.
He sighed, muttering under his breath, “Here we go.” Pushing off Marcy’s desk, he navigated the chaos and stepped into Isabella’s lair, closing the door behind him. The noise of the newsroom dulled to a murmur as he faced her. She stood behind her desk, arms crossed, one hip cocked, her gaze dissecting him like he was a headline she didn’t quite buy.
“Sit,” she ordered, nodding to the chair across from her. Her voice was velvet over steel, the kind that could coax a confession or cut you down in the same breath.
Adan obeyed, easing into the seat with a casual slouch, though his pulse ticked up under her scrutiny. “What’s this about, boss? I’m on deadline for the city council piece—”
“Cut the crap, Beckett,” she interrupted, leaning forward, palms flat on her desk. Her eyes glinted with a mix of suspicion and mischief. “You’ve got that deer-in-headlights look, which means you know exactly why you’re here. Everyone’s losing their minds over this flying freakshow downtown, and I want answers. You’re my best digger. So, tell me—what’ve you heard?”
Adan shrugged, playing the part of the clueless reporter to perfection. “Same as everyone else, I guess. Some guy in a costume pulled a stunt at the bank. Probably a viral marketing thing. Or a nutcase with a jetpack.”
Isabella’s lips curled into a smirk, but it wasn’t friendly. It was the kind of smile a cat gives a cornered mouse. “Oh, please. Don’t play dumb with me, Adan. I’ve seen you sniff out stories in places even the rats won’t go. You’re telling me you’ve got nothing on this caped crusader?”
He adjusted his glasses again, a nervous tic he’d perfected for this persona, and met her gaze with a sheepish grin. “I’m flattered you think so highly of me, Isabella, but I’m not a magician. I can’t pull leads out of thin air.”
She straightened, circling the desk with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator. Stopping just behind his chair, she leaned down, her breath warm against his ear as she murmured, “You’d better start pulling something, sweetheart, because I’m not in the mood for excuses. I want this story on my desk, and I want it yesterday. Or do I need to remind you who signs your paycheck?”
Adan’s skin prickled at her proximity, the scent of her jasmine perfume mixing with the sharp edge of her words. He turned his head just enough to catch her eye, his voice dropping to a playful drawl. “Threats, huh? Careful, boss. Keep talking like that, and I might think you’re flirting.”
Her laugh was low, dangerous, as she straightened and stepped back, her heels clicking on the hardwood. “Flirting? Oh, honey, if I were flirting, you’d be begging for mercy by now. This is me being *nice*. Don’t test me.”
He held up his hands in mock surrender, a grin tugging at his lips despite the heat creeping up his neck. “Alright, alright. I’ll dig. But if this turns out to be some cosplayer with a drone, I’m billing you for my wasted time.”
Isabella perched on the edge of her desk, crossing one leg over the other, her skirt riding up just enough to make his carefully crafted nerd persona falter for a split second. “You do that, Beckett. And while you’re at it, wipe that smug little smirk off your face. I don’t care if you think this is a joke—I smell a Pulitzer, and I’m not letting it slip through my fingers. Or yours.”
Adan stood, smoothing his tie as he met her gaze head-on, his tone teasing despite the undercurrent of tension. “You’ve got a nose for glory, I’ll give you that. Fine. I’ll chase your ghost story. But don’t be surprised if I come back with nothing but a headache.”
She tilted her head, her red-tipped hair catching the light as her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’m counting on you to surprise me, Adan. Don’t disappoint. Now get out of my office before I decide to make your life even more miserable.”
He gave her a mock salute, turning for the door, but her voice stopped him cold just as his hand touched the knob. “And Beckett? If I find out you’re holding out on me, I’ll skin you alive and hang your byline on my wall as a trophy. Understood?”
Adan glanced over his shoulder, his heart thudding a little faster than he’d like to admit. “Crystal clear, boss. Crystal clear.”
Stepping back into the newsroom, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Isabella Flores was a force of nature—sharp, relentless, and far too perceptive for his liking. Keeping his alien secrets under wraps was going to be harder than dodging bullets. But as he returned to his desk, the ghost of her jasmine scent lingering in his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder if the real danger wasn’t in the streets, but right here, behind that glass door.
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