I am hit with a blast of cool air the moment my feet bear weight on the marble floor beneath. The News 11 lobby looks nothing short of a luxury hotel, with tall antique vases adorned with orchards and tulips by the reception, chandeliers grander than ceiling fans throwing spotlight around, and designer heels clacking all the way to the elevators. A look at the grand scheme of events and I already feel like I don't belong here; my macys bought outfit sticking out like a bad mochi.

There aren't many signs around so I resort to taking assistance of the beaming lady behind the counter. "Could you direct me to Helena Banks' office? I'm Naomi Ty," I extend my hand, but she only looks at it warily before sloppily doing the honours. I don't miss the way she scans me from top to bottom, probably with half a mind to call security.

"I'll call and check for your appointment," she passes a hesitant smile, working the keys on the landline at snail speed, as if no more than a formality. "Some Naomi Ty is here to meet Ms. Banks. Does she have an appointment anytime today in her schedule or the charity program maybe?" The disinterest radiates off her twirling self, picking at a broken nail while the receiver rests between her head and her padded shoulder. "She does? Exclusively?" The surprise in her voice is audible to half the passers by, halting their routine for a moment's time to check on her. "Okay, I'll send her."

"So, can I go?" I lean on the marble top, regretting as soon as the cold surface makes me yelp in response. "Directions please?" I close my palms on my handbag before clumsy me can do any more damage than what's already been done.

"Eighth floor, second cabin," she's suddenly sweet as honey, going as far as offering me those tiny mineral water bottles stacked in abundance by the edge of the counter. I pass it up, but from the looks of it she does need one to drink up and one to wash. I've no idea what the receiver on the other side said to make her blonde hair slick in a ponytail, stick to her now sweaty forehead. It's like three degrees in here, if anything I'm craving my floral shawl unkempt in my closet.

"Focus, Naomi," I make my way to the elevator, almost tripping on my feet when getting out on the eighth floor. A few sniggers follow suit, probably stifled because of the fitted coats and choking ties on the spectators. There's cabins on both sides over here, but thankfully the second on the left has 'Helena Banks' instilled on the glass door, clear as the sun shining over the Lotte World tower.
I wonder how it must be; walking everyday to this small enclosure with the knowledge in the back of her mind that she might just make history today. It's really not about the  fame that comes with this profession for me, but the power to point the right from the wrong. I couldn't do much for my own family when it came to that, but I aspire to do it for someone else with a strong belief in the system. I don't think I'll be able to make headlines across the world, and that's okay as long as I make a difference even for a few lives out there. So here's to kicking asses and covering more than just frat parties.

My hands trembles even as I knock over the door, feeling my head going dizzy with every second of silence that passes in the carpeted corridor. "Come in." A heavy voice, commanding yet feminine, just as I imagined to be, calls out from behind the closed doors.

I push it slightly, sucking in every bit of oxygen available in the glass tower as my eyes fall upon the woman herself. She's reading through a document, marking through certain lines with a golden Reynolds pen between her ring clad fingers; her gaze sharp on the papers and then on me. I take it as the moment to exhale all the air caught in my lungs; stunned as she pulls her spectacles down to the bridge of her nose, her red lips turning into a faint smile. Everything about her screams ethereal, from the neatly curled flicks of her white Bob to her crisp co-ords seeming more than ready to take over the television and change a twelve year old's life as she knew it.

"Ms. Ty?" She pulls me out of my rose filmed haze, signalling for me to take a seat across her desk. I avoid giving in to the urge to bite the insides of my cheek as I am known to do every time nervousness strikes me. Although, I don't make much of an effort to hide it, what with my handbag doing rounds of my lap, a leather chair, and her desk even until it's back to my side. If she's able to see through the embarrassment flaming my cheeks, she sure doesn't show it.

"To begin with, I want to thank you for considering the offer at such a short and informal notice," she says, meaning every word that's uttered, as if coming right through her heart. Thank me? Thank you for taking the time to shoot my drunk mess of a self a text about my dream job. "It's just that when I came across the viral video, I nearly couldn't fathom it was a university student behind the camera, the details, the gravitas, and the organic touch to the story... it really was the shrewd reality presented to the world without any filter."

Wow, that's too much credit. I wish that's what I mind would say, but in reality I'm choking up and every compliment pulls me a step higher to sniffling like a baby. It's almost ironic how the time when I was sealing my entry into the spheres of journalism, I didn't have a care in the world and now that it's all being narrated back to me, I want to thank Corona for whatever it is in their beer that pulled on my crazy chords and writhed apart any self control that could have hindered my iconic coverage. "I don't know what to say."

"Say that you're ready to accept this job," Ms. Banks makes me realise I said it out loud, looking at me expectantly. "Ms. Ty, I believe you're here at my office today because you want to further pursue journalism beyond the learnings offered at professional institutions. To make it your means of bread and butter if I may say so, and to break the silence that's taken lead over truth in the dark times we are facing."

"I do," I mutter, forgoing of any doubts that I had about this job, and silently humming to the national anthem of my country. I left Seoul for this very opportunity and now that it's laden in a silver spoon in front of me, held by Helena Banks nonetheless, I would have to be a complete idiot to pass it off. "Ready to bring the faces forward, the light of Australia, I'm Naomi Ty."

She nods in approval, pulling the taps open as I see blurred flashbacks of fourteen year old me, quoting her every chance I got, hoping I'd be able to show it to her someday. Without Ma's signature oyster sauce all over my mouth, though.

"I'm glad I picked you, and I can claim with confidence that you'll pass the test with flying colours," she clasps her palms together, rejoicing before she calls who seems to be an assistant to pull out a bunch of files from one of the drawers in the desk. All this while I doubt if I heard her correct. "I'm sorry, did you... did you say test?"

"Oh, I didn't tell you, did I? Looks like age is finally catching up with me," she lightly laughs, her wrinkles popping out on cue, and I join her midway with an awkward chuckle. "The thing is, it might not be as easy to secure this job as I maybe have put it. Since it's a prime time anchor post and the channel's got huge funds invested in the particular hour designated to it, we've decided to test the applicants with a project of sorts."

"Okay," I drag it out, seeming fine while my knees bounce under the wooden desk, scathing my skin as we speak.

"Now you must be aware of the news that the yearly Australian beauty pageant is being held in Sydney this time around. Usually, News 11 is just concerned with covering the main event that announces the winner, but for 2019, we want to take advantage of the localisation of the pageant and present a detailed story on the workings of the industry behind the curtains," she air quotes it, raising her eyebrows and assuming I've got the message. When I shrug in response, she presents a DVD in front of me; Miss Congeniality. That's not one of the items what I expected to be shelved in Helena Banks' office. "You, Ms. Ty, will be going undercover as one of the contestants in the pageant, to cover the unseen. A test and a golden opportunity to prove your worth as a true journalist."

I'm numb from shock. Sure, I go around saying I'd die to work for News 11, but this is more mortifying than satan himself pulling my soul out of my lanky body. I couldn't even dress decently enough for my prom, showing up in a puffy sleeve Victorian dress with a neck tie upfront. I made sure I didn't have even the slimmest chance to wake up to regrets that turned into fond memories overtime. That aside, I don't have half the grace or confidence to ramp walk in front of thousands in person and millions on record. "I can't do this," I admit, woeful but true to the T that this is miles out of my league.

"Oh, don't you worry, we'll have a trainer assigned to prepare you for the pageant and a personal assistant from our team to keep an eye out for you. We take good care of our employees, Ms. Ty." The way she said employees made my stomach flip, but the harsh reality still stays the same.

"I appreciate the support, Ms. Banks, but I'm really not that experienced to take this kind of a project up. This job does mean everything to me and I'd have given my blood if the situation called for, but this is just something I know I won't be able to do justice to."

She doesn't say anything, mildly disappointed I assume when her lips fold into a thin line of grimace. Pulling her cushioned chair back, she gets up and towers over the desk; her hands on either sides and her eyes boring into mine. I notice she's wearing Burberry's lavender scent. "Naomi," she calls me out by my name for the first time, and yet with an authority I couldn't imagine. "This profession is full of challenges and threats. Challenges that you won't see coming, but you'd have to face for your commitment to the citizens out there. I had to do the same or I won't be where I am. I'm sure you remember my expose of the money laundering scam years ago, for which the ruling government was responsible."

I frantically nod, recollecting the waves it had caused all over the world, even down in Korea where it had become a debate for the leaders. "They found out what I'd been up to, and warned me to keep my mouth shut or I'll face consequences. I didn't back out and bore through this to fulfil my commitment," she rolls the sleeves of her black tie up shirt, revealing a bullet shaped scar dug into her flesh; the black and blue visibly horrid on her peach skin. My heart's in my mouth and all I can do is swallow as I take in the events that must have caused it. "Exactly," she reads into my thoughts, settling back into her chair and in her composed self within a snap of fingers.

"I can't force you to do anything since we're a democratic nation, but I can request you to consider what this could mean for your career. If you do change you mind, I'll make sure to have delivered the acceptance document to your mail address. Just leave it with the receptionist in the lobby," she pulls her spectacles back up and returns to scanning through the documents on her desk.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Banks," I get up, failing to keep from biting the insides of my cheek as my scabbed knees compliment the burning of the rashes on my thighs.

My walk out of her office feels one of shame for some reason. I guess inspite of having formed scenarios everything that could go wrong, somewhere beneath it all I expected to come out with a term of service letter and a grin on my face. If not, then I definitely did not see another life altering decision coming my way.

When I come by the receptionist's counter this time, she rises off her seat in an instant, pulling out a piece of paper and ball pen to present to me. Poor she has already received the orders from the top, it seems. I write my mail ID down and pass it on to her, but all the while there's a voice inside me questioning what the hell I'm pulling myself into. "Have a nice day, ma'am," she beams at me, despite being aware we both can feel how really the happiness is.

"Same to you," I wave at her for some reason before stepping out in the heat wave once again. There are some fifteen missed calls from Kiara and a hundred text messages. Of course, a bunch of them are low key threats from The SSU fraternity, lamenting about how they can't get the stuff anymore. Something about the dealers getting alerted and what not. There's also a friendly note from my calendar, reminding me of my showing at the vice principal's office in an hour

I ignore them all, but the rather quick mail from News 11 is unsurprisingly hard to slide up. To hell with Miss Congeniality, my life's become a Sophie's choice over here.