The air in the meeting room was suffocatingly tense, I swear even the walls are holding their breath.

My spine feels like it's about to snap from sitting too straight, but I can't afford to slouch-not when Mr. Goyal, my boss is sitting right there, ready to chew me out for not giving a single interview in the past three months.

"So the next guest I want on our interview show is the famous Indian cricketer, Sarthak Singh," he announced, his voice cutting through the silence. "Who's interested in interviewing him?"

Instantly, hands shoot up around the table-every single one, except mine.

And right when I start feeling every pair of eyes burning into my skull, I force my hand up too, slow and awkward, like a kid who didn't study and still wants to bluff through an exam.

I mean, come on. I've practically given up on my dream of being a top-tier reporter. All I've managed to do lately is chase interviews that never happen.

"Okay, that was a good response," Mr. Goyal said, his sharp eyes scanning each one of us. "But before I hand over this responsibility, let me be very clear about the pros and cons. Cons first-Mr. Sarthak has never appeared on any news channel. He despises media coverage and avoids journalists like the plague. It's going to be a pain in the ass to approach him. But I want that interview, no matter what. Got it?"

Silence.

"And now the pros. Whoever manages to land this interview gets promoted to scheduling shows-no more ground work. And for some of you..." His gaze landed squarely on me, "this is your last chance to save your job."

I feel my heart drop to my stomach.

Oh shit. He meant me. He practically spelled it out without saying my name. I'm screwed. There's no way in hell I'm getting an exclusive with someone who practically ghosts the entire media industry.

"Now tell me who is going to take the responsibility?" Mr. Goyal asked.

I look around the table. Suddenly, everyone's an expert at avoiding eye contact-hiding their faces, pretending their notepads are damn fascinating.

Cowards.

"I would take the responsibility," I say, lifting my hand with a confidence I don't feel, voice steady even though my insides are screaming.

"Ishika, are you sure? Because if you didn't get the interview this time, you are fired!" he throws the challenge like a dagger.

But I don't flinch. Because one thing about us Punjabis—we don't run. We wear our pride on our heads like a crown.

"Challenge accepted."

"Ok then, you have a week. Convince Mr. Sarthak for the interview and get your job back." My boss says, making himself clear.

"Ok sir, deal." Oh my god Ishika from where are you getting this confidence?

"Ok then the meeting is dismissed." With that my dear boss left the meeting room and everyone else in the meeting room started walking out while patting my shoulder.

"Best of luck, Ishika," they say. Yes I did need that. But what's with those pity eyes? Do I look like someone in need of sympathy?

Yes, getting Sarthak Singh to open up is like asking a stone to sing—but I will interview him. No matter what. Because my damn job depends on it.

I collected my stuff and exit the meeting room, making my way out of the meeting room.

Not going back to my cubicle, I make my way to the coffee machine and brew myself a coffee.

And that's when reality hits me. Who should I contact first?

His manager, Vikas Jhunjhunwala, would be guaranteed "no" on legs, but he's also my only lead. No other doors exist. Not yet.

I pout, my lips twitched in frustration. When I first got a job at this big news channel, I imagined lights, cameras, and Ishika Kholi on air and a glamorous life. But five months later? I am still stuck in the shadows.

During the initial months, I got stuck doing research and writing script drafts. It was useful, yes, but not what I had imagined. Then Mr. Goyal decided to start this flashy new segment—Chai Pe Charcha.

Where our news channel invites big personalities like Politicians, businessmen and inspirational and motivational people.

And to interview them in this show segment there is only one rule—whoever gets the guest gets the mic.

So basically if you convinced the guest to the studio you would get to interview them.

Sounded like a fair deal. But it wasn't.

Until I saw the truth of this industry—the twisted side where your last names weigh more than your talent.

Every rookie here walks in with a shiny surname or political bloodline. And then there's me—fighting to be seen once on camera with a mic.

"Short girls shouldn't stress so much, or their tiny heads might burst." A hand gently taps my head.

I turned around, only to meet my senior reporter, Chris Varghese.

"Sir, I think it’s a little too late for that advice. My head’s already throbbing." I muttered while I grabbed my coffee.

Chris smiled, adjusting his rectangular glasses on the bridge of his nose. He's one of the few reporters here who came from an ordinary family, just like me.

Maybe that's why I admire him so much.

Someday, I hope to become a determined and renowned reporter like him.

"How many times have I told you to call me Chris, no need for these formalities Ishika, and if you had a headache you could have told me we could have grabbed filter coffee by the nearby shop. You really liked it last time."

"Thanks Sir, wait I mean Chris. But I don’t have time today."

"And may I ask why?" He asks, brewing his own cup of coffee.

"Didn't Mr. Goyal told you? He wants an exclusive interview with Sarthak Singh. He wants the interview details this weekend. Or I'm fired."

"Does he want Sarthak Singh in the show? But he never showed up in front of the media. How is it even possible to get him in the show?" he says.

"Don't ask. Apparently, miracles are now part of my job description according to Mr. Goyal." I sighed again.

"Don't stress about it Ishika. Just tell Mr. Goyal that you can't get the interview and to give you another chance to prove yourself. He is not that bad, he would definitely give you a chance."

"I can't back off Chris. He gave me a challenge to prove myself. If I wouldn't give him an exclusive this time he would definitely fire me from this job." Panic claws at my chest, but I force myself to stay calm but I can't.

"Ok first cool down and take deep breaths. Talk to Sarthak's manager first. You shouldn't come to any conclusion so fast silly." He patted my head softly again and I followed his words and took deep breaths to calm myself.

"Chris you are in sports news, do you have any clue of how to approach him or maybe a hideous place no one knows about it?" I ask, clinging to that thread of hope.

"Umm there is a place, where you can find him alone." His brows pinch together as he digs through his memory.

"It's a gym which is quite far from Delhi. Almost fifty four kilometres away from here. It's a private gym, called Body and Fit. He workouts there so that no media can smell his presence but I don't know if he would be there now or not."

"How did you find out about this gym?" I asked.

"I got a tip from my spy and his tips are always hundred percent confirmed I can guarantee you."

Well then. If that's true then this might be my chance. I don't care if I have to crawl, beg, or cling to Sarthak’s shoes to get his interview and save my job.

"But don’t go alone. It’s far. Isolated. Not exactly safe." His voice turns stern.

Before I could say anything, a staff member rushed in, breathless.

"Mr. Varghese! It's a breaking news! We need you in the studio—now!"

Chris throws me a quick smile. "Call the manager and tell me what happens later ok!" He sprints off, leaving his coffee behind.

I carry both cups back to my cubicle, placing them beside my notepad and flipping open my laptop. I dig in the Wikimedia and after half an hour, I finally got his manager's number.

I dialed. It ringed. And ringed. Just when I thought he was going to ghost me—"Hello?" He picked up.

"Hello, am I speaking to Vikas Jhunjhunwala?" I infuse every ounce of professionalism I could muster.

"Yes. Who is this?" He asked.

"Ishika Kholi, a junior reporter in News 69." I replied.

"Ugh. Not in the mood for a 69, honey. Make it quick."

I blink. Wow. That joke? Really? Mr. Goyal’s blood pressure would rocket sky-high if he heard that one.

"Mr. Jhunjhunwala, our channel hosts a popular segment called Chai Pe Charcha. We'd love to have Mr. Sarthak Singh for an exclusive interview. It’s a very small interview. If you could please—"

"Sarthak doesn't do interviews. Period. He doesn't need them. His performance speaks volumes. Now stop invading his privacy. Goodbye."

The line goes dead.

I stare at my phone, the silence deafening. My head hits the chair back. I close my eyes.

Maybe I am a failure.

Maybe it’s time to ask my brother for a job at his restaurant. At least I’ll be useful somewhere.

No, Ishika. Snap out of it. You can't give up. Get. Up. And. Fight.

My eyes fly open, fire blazing behind them. I started typing furiously, researching every move Sarthak have made in the last few weeks.

He was in Australia for a test series. Now he's back. And if the pattern holds—he will go to that gym.

Problem? The gym is practically on Mars. No cabs are available there.

Still. I glance at the clock—3:00 PM. If I leave now, I'll reach by 5:30. That's enough.

I slam my laptop shut, sling my tote over my shoulder, and march toward the elevator.

"Hey Ishika, heading out early? Got a date?" One of my colle

agues asked with a grin.

I smirk over my shoulder.

“Not a date. A mission." I speak as I get in the elevator.

"Mission Sarthak 69." I mumbled.

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