Okay, I'd been in some weird shit. I once cleaned beer puke off a frat house ceiling. I once Ubered for twelve hours straight during a music festival and had a guy pay me in crypto and it worked. But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for this.
Two months later.
"So..." I stare at the glossy glass tower piercing the clouds above downtown. The Ascendants HQ logo gleams like a holy sigil: a stylized red A with golden stroke. My student debt practically sings at the sight.
Alright, Toby. You land this internship, you pay off one semester of college. Maybe two if you stop eating actual food.
Biggest superhero team on the planet? The people who saved New York from a city-sized wormhole last year? Their PR department probably runs like NASA crossed with Vogue.
Perfect for my résumé.
Or so I thought.
The elevator doors open to the most intimidating lobby I've ever seen: crystal floors, marble walls, and massive holograms playing Ascendant highlight reels. Kids pose for selfies in front of All-Star's statue—cape billowing, jawline engineered by gods, smile like it cured world hunger.
I swallow hard and check the email again:
[Public Relations Internship – Apply if you're discreet, organized, and unflappable under pressure.]
Discreet? Sure. Organized? I color-code my playlists. Unflappable? ...Well.
I follow the signs to Executive PR, nerves buzzing. My shoes squeak on the floor. My shirt feels too cheap for this building. Everyone I pass looks like they were grown in a lab for LinkedIn photoshoots.
The receptionist waves me toward a hallway. "Conference Room B. Good luck."
I step in—and stop dead.
The woman waiting for me has the aura of someone who could make CEOs cry. Steel-gray blazer. Black heels that click like gunfire. Her hair is so precise it probably has its own security detail.
"You're Toby Wells?" Her voice is crisp enough to cut glass.
"Y-yeah. That's me."
"I'm Ms. Bishop. Head of PR." She glances at her tablet. "You've signed the preliminary NDA?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Follow me. And try not to... wander."
Wander?
We walk through hallways lined with glass offices, each one buzzing with assistants juggling phones and drones. On one side, I swear I hear... music? And laughter? From behind a door marked 'Restricted'. On another, someone's yelling in French about "shadows misbehaving."
I open my mouth to ask, but Ms. Bishop doesn't slow down.
Finally, she pushes open the door to Conference Room B.
And he's there.
All-Star. The man. The myth. The golden boy of every cereal box, every motivational poster. Up close, he's even more surreal. He doesn't just stand in a suit—he owns it, sunlight pooling through the glass behind him like it's contractually obligated. His eyes flick to me and—God—smile unlocked.
"Hey," he says, voice warm like summer. "You must be the new intern."
My brain does a Windows error sound. "Uh—yes. Hi. Big fan. Huge fan."
"Appreciated. And please, no need for 'sir.' Just call me Grant." He leans against the table like this is a GQ shoot.
Ms. Bishop slides into a chair and gestures for me to sit. I do, trying not to stare like a tourist.
"So," she says briskly, "why do you want this job?"
I clear my throat. "I'm a communications major. I've always admired how you control... narratives under pressure. The Ascendants represent hope, unity, and—"
"Optics," Grant finishes for me, grin lazy. "You'll like it here. We're big on optics."
Ms. Bishop ignores him. "The work isn't glamorous. You'll draft statements, monitor socials, handle sensitive material. Very sensitive material. Can you handle discretion?"
"Yes, ma'am. Absolutely."
Grant tilts his head. "What about... unusual circumstances?"
"Unusual?"
"Long hours. Sudden crises. Personal situations that could... escalate if not managed carefully." His eyes hold mine just a little too long. There's something in them—mischief? A dare?
Before I can answer, the door swings open.
A blur of red darts in—a guy with wild hair and a grin like trouble. He's breathing hard, suit clinging like a second skin.
"Boss," he pants, ignoring me completely. "Mission done. Bridge secured. No casualties." He flashes a thumbs-up... then glances down at himself and mutters, "Uh. Gonna... need a spare uniform."
Grant groans. "J,J..."
"Not my fault! Friction's a bitch." He zips out before I can blink.
I stare at the door. Then at them. Ms. Bishop doesn't even sigh. Grant just smirks like this is Tuesday.
"See?" he says, still looking at me. "Unusual circumstances."
I manage a nod. "Right. Yeah. I can handle that."
Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!
Use arrow keys (or A / D) to PREV/NEXT chapter