THE NEWSROOM OF THE SUNNY felt like a living organism, pulsating, where every desk, every keystroke, and every ringing phone composed the daily symphony of an information empire. The space followed the American model of modern journalism: a large open hall without partitions, where the air smelled of reheated coffee and the urgency of impossible deadlines. The walls were covered with framed historic covers and iconic headlines that reminded young reporters of the weight of the tradition they carried.
The environment was divided into sections such as Sports, Fashion, and Celebrities, each with its own internal war dynamic. In each sector, the editor and assistant editor sat side by side, overseeing reporters who, like soldiers in trenches, fought for space on tomorrow's pages. The layout was meticulously planned — on one side, creative unrest; on the other, editorial power.
On the wall opposite the entrance, a cluster of larger desks formed the so-called executive line: there sat the editor-in-chief, the managing editor, the art director, and the photography director. Behind them, two frosted-glass doors marked sacred territories: the editorial meeting room and, beside it, the office of The Sunny's director — the only one who enjoyed the luxury of privacy.
Since joining the team, Saul Nolland had achieved something few had: independence. The special reports unit was a solitary kingdom, and he was its only inhabitant. In his role as assistant editor, he had the freedom to propose and defend his own stories directly to Mick Gallagher, the editor-in-chief. This autonomy was his trophy — and also his armor. He owed explanations to no one except the man who controlled the newspaper with an iron fist and British irony.
— Good morning, Saul. Do you have Alahmed Al-Fadik's phone number? — asked Diana, the fashion editor, leaning over his desk.
At thirty-two years old, five foot eleven of pure elegance, and with a pair of green eyes capable of making any man lose his composure, Diana was the very definition of journalistic glamour. Her slightly wavy blonde hair framed a face of delicate yet defiant features. She did not walk through the newsroom — she glided. And each of her steps drew disguised sighs among piles of papers and computer screens.
— I do, give me a second to check my contacts — Saul replied, opening his black leather folder.
A few seconds later, he scribbled the number on a piece of paper and handed it to her.
— Besides being the most elegant journalist in this place, you're also the one with the best contacts — she said, smiling with the natural magnetism of someone fully aware of the power she held.
Saul smiled back, but inwardly completed the sentence:
And a bank account that would make any editor-in-chief blush...
As she walked away, he watched her curving figure in that tight dress and muttered to himself:
— Maybe that lustful angel would choose you, Diana... — he smirked — ...and I certainly wouldn't blame him for it.
HALF AN HOUR BEFORE GOING TO BED, Saul Nolland slipped on his comfortable Italian wool slippers, locked the bedroom door, and turned the handle twice. The dry sound of the bolt was the ritual that made him feel protected — or at least gave him that illusion.
He put on his navy-blue silk pajamas, a gift from a designer friend, and walked into the suite. Standing before the mirror, he brushed his teeth with the methodical care of someone who needed control even in the most trivial gestures. If he hadn't been so exhausted, he would have leaned back in the velvet armchair to read another chapter of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, his bedside book that week, but the weight of the day overcame him. He switched off the bedside lamp, checked if his cane was under the bed — a habit born from the trauma of the accident that had nearly cost him his leg — and, satisfied, closed his eyes.
The silence in the room seemed absolute, but something — a faint vibration in the air — gave him the feeling he was not alone.
Seconds before falling asleep, when the line between reality and illusion dissolved, a face appeared before him — that of a childhood friend. Saul had met him at the old family mansion, The Holme, a property surrounded by lakes and gardens that hid more secrets than flowers.
— What was his name again? — he murmured, trying to remember.
For a few months, they had played together every weekend, inseparable. Until the night the boy disappeared. No one ever spoke about it again. The servants were dismissed, and Saul's parents seemed to have erased the boy from memory. But now he was there — alive, smiling, calling him.
Suddenly, Saul awoke in his childhood bedroom, sweating, seven years old again. The room smelled of wax and fear. Outside, the wind roared through the stained-glass windows.
In the nightmare, men with deformed faces attacked him, while his friend's bed remained empty.
— They took me to the labyrinth, Saul... — whispered the familiar voice. — It's dark... come.
— They want to kill me... help me!
Saul grabbed his tennis racket — the only weapon he had — and left the room, determined to face his fear. He opened the main door of the mansion and walked through the damp garden toward the entrance of the hedge maze. At the center, a red candle burned, trembling in the wind.
— Never go in there, Saul — his father had warned him many times. — There are things in the shadows that do not belong to this world.
But his friend's voice insisted:
— Help me, Saul...
He took a deep breath and stepped forward, then another. Red candles lined the path, guiding him through the labyrinth like a road to hell. At every turn, the voices multiplied — whispers, laughter, laments.
When he reached the center, dozens of black candles burned around a small chapel. The iron gate stood ajar, and voices seemed to rise from the depths.
— Where are you? — he shouted.
There was no answer, only the echo of his own fear. Suddenly, laughter — and then the figures returned — men with deformed faces, sewn eyes, and torn mouths.
Saul tried to retreat, but they surrounded him. Among them, he glimpsed his friend's body lying on a stone table.
— Did you kill him? — he shouted, raising the racket.
— Why didn't you obey your father? — one of them hissed.
Saul closed his eyes, wishing to disappear. When he opened them, he was once again holding his father's hand, walking beside the labyrinth. The sun seemed to rise over the lake, but from behind a bush, a grotesque creature emerged, panting, its eyes glowing like embers fixed on him. The beast leaped — and Saul woke up with a scream trapped in his throat.