The Newark print shop smelled faintly of fresh paint and paper dust. Renovations were finished enough that the skeleton of a newsroom had finally taken shape—rows of desks, half-assembled scanners humming in test mode, and a small offset press standing like a proud iron beast in the corner.
Ethan arrived straight from school, his backpack slung over one shoulder. To anyone watching, he was just another teenager tagging along. But behind the backpack was his carefully curated identity—Isaac Maddox, Columbia student, political science major, philanthropist in the making, and publisher of Insight.
Peter had already beaten him there, sleeves rolled up, hair a mess from running nervous fingers through it. Felicia leaned casually against the darkroom door, looking effortlessly unimpressed as always. And clustered near the central table were the fresh recruits:
Danny Ruiz, mid-twenties, eager, with ink-stained fingers and a notebook that looked like it hadn't left his hand in weeks.
Clara Hensley, sharper, older, skeptical eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. She had the look of someone who'd been burned before but was willing to take one more gamble.
Mark Donnelly, reporter, tall and tired, a chain smoker who seemed like he'd seen too much city grime already.
Alison Price, photographer, a quiet redhead with two cameras slung around her neck and an almost predatory patience in how she studied the room.
Ethan set his bag down and smiled faintly. Time to set the board.
"Hello, everyone, my name is Ethan Kane, Mr. Isaac Maddox intern assistant. I have a message from him and it reads as following: Let's keep this simple," Ethan began, his voice carrying a weight that felt too heavy for a boy his age. "This paper isn't going to be another neighborhood rag. If you're here, it's because you're not afraid to hit where it hurts."
Peter glanced at him, then cleared his throat, stepping up. "Right. Official roles. I'm editor-in-chief. That means everything we run crosses my desk first. No exceptions. We want to hit hard, but we also need to hit right. One mistake and Oscorp—or someone worse—will eat us alive."
Felicia smirked and raised a hand. "Logistics and security. Which is a fancy way of saying I'll make sure the lights stay on and no one breaks the windows while you're all typing away. Also, it means I can wander in whenever I feel like it."
Danny chuckled under his breath, though Clara didn't look convinced.
"And me," Ethan said smoothly, "As I explained, I am Mr. Maddox's assistant. Mr. Isaac Maddox is the publisher. He will bankroll us, promises to keep the doors open, and keep the wolves from our accounts. You won't see him write a word, take a photo, or even come in often. But he said to let you know that when this paper needs a shield, that's him. If you require anything of him, please inform me and I shall let him know."
He tapped the table as he gestured to himself with a grin, "As an intern, I have much to learn from you all, so if I make a mistake, please humor me and teach me well."
The new hires nodded, some with confusion, some with relief.
"Journalists," Peter continued, nodding at Danny and Clara, "you dig. You get the names, the numbers, the patterns. Reporter—" he looked at Donnelly— "you package it for the city to understand. Photographer—Alison—you make sure the story bleeds through the images as much as the words."
Mark raised a brow. "And what's the first story we're bleeding on?"
Peter didn't hesitate. "Oscorp."
The word hung in the air like a challenge.
Ethan reached into his bag and laid out two lists. The first: three legitimate Oscorp facilities—research wings tied to medicine, robotics, and space. The second: hidden facilities, off the books, marked only by numbers and vague project code names.
"These," Ethan said, tapping the second list, "are from Mr. Maddox. He said using his connections, he found these, which are the ones Norman Osborn doesn't put in glossy brochures. Mr. Maddox suspects that within these facilities, human experimentation, illegal drug manufacturing, robotics designed for paramilitary use, and—yes—even a satellite project the FCC doesn't know about are occurring. Tax evasion's just the garnish on top."
Clara leaned in, eyes widening. "Where did he even—"
"Sources," Ethan cut smoothly. "Don't worry about that. I don't. Worry about proving it."
Peter exhaled, rubbing his temples. "We've got six days. That's all. In six days we not only have to nail the story, but we need it printed and stacked on counters all across the city."
Felicia whistled low. "And how do you plan on doing that? Did you forget that we're a no-name paper? No one's going to carry us."
Ethan smiled, the faintest curl of satisfaction. "That's where you're wrong. You don't buy distribution. You bribe it. Not with money—at least, not directly. With ads."
The recruits looked at him blankly.
"Here's the pitch," Ethan said, standing now, pacing lightly like a lecturer. "Vendors: bodegas, corner stands, diners. Tell them: 'We'll run your ad for free this month. Just carry double bundles and put them on the counter.' That's it. Free exposure. No cost to them, and they can even keep the profit. Suddenly, they're invested."
Danny scribbled furiously. Clara frowned, muttering, "That… actually works."
"Small businesses," Ethan continued. "Dry cleaners, mechanics, bars—they all want customers. We give them ad space in our paper free. In return, they tell every person who walks in: 'Take a copy. Our ad's inside.' That's word of mouth with print behind it."
Felicia crossed her arms. "And then what? We just keep giving away ad space?"
Ethan's smile sharpened. "Of course not. This is New York. Nothing spreads faster than a barber pointing to his shop's name next to a corruption bombshell. Once we're hot, once Oscorp bleeds on our front page, everyone will want their name in Insight. That's when free turns to premium."
Mark stared at him. "You're talking about launching a war against Oscorp of all people. The man has an army of lawyers. He'll easily strike us down."
Ethan didn't look away. "We're talking about launching a paper. Printing the truth in ink. Once they have the truth, the public is the one who will wage the war for us. No one can beat the court of public opinion not even Osborn. I know I'm just an intern, but when it comes to things like this, trust me when I say I'm a master."
The room went quiet. Even the hum of the press felt muted.
Finally, Mark Donnelly lit a cigarette, ignoring the "No Smoking" stencil on the wall. "Well," he said, smoke curling above him, "guess we'd better write something worth bleeding for then."