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soft heels tapping faintly on the marble flooring, and
pulled open the ancient elevator cage.
    “Hold that, please,” said
an elegantly accented voice.
    I turned to see the same
sharply dressed elderly gentleman from the day before. He wore a peachy coral
shirt with a pinstriped navy blue suit. He carried a long-handled umbrella even
though the forecast showed no sign of rain.
    “Ah, it is you !”
He peered at me through his bottle cap glasses and broke into a welcoming
smile. “I see you made it inside the building.”
    I pressed my hand toward
him. “My name is Kat. Kat Raney. Do you work for the magazine too?”
    He shook my hand with a
loose and delicate grip. “Charmed, Miss Raney. I am Miklos Balik, the
magazine’s art director.”
    I recognized the name
immediately and felt like a fool for not having associated it with this
grandfatherly figure. I had imagined that the art director for a publication
like KTFO would be someone young and edgy, in keeping with the trendy
vibe of the magazine.
    My confusion must have
registered on my face because Miklos interjected to fill the awkward silence.
    “And you are the new
intern, I presume?” He rolled the “r” in “presume” in a particularly
sophisticated manner.
    “I am! Just started
yesterday. But, I guess you already know that,” I stammered.
    The elevator opened to
our floor. Miklos twirled his umbrella in a dramatic arc and held the door for
me.
    “Well, Kat Raney, I am
sure we will see much more of each other. In fact, I will see you at the staff
meeting in approximately two minutes.”
    “Yes, sir.” Staff
meeting? What staff meeting? “I…um…look forward to it.”
    Miklos disappeared down
the corridor of executive offices. I edged through the maze to my desk and set
my belongings on its cold metal top. I was just lowering myself into the chair
when Tony appeared from nowhere like a fast-moving apparition.
    “Come on, Kat. We need to
go to the conference room. Tuesday morning meeting.”
    He beckoned for me to
follow with a scooping gesture. I complied, hurriedly grabbing a pen and paper
and jogging to catch up with his rapidly swishing khaki steps.
    The conference room was larger
than I expected, practically an auditorium. Tables were arranged in a large
rectangle around the borders of the room. Staff members filed through the
entrance alone or in eagerly chattering pairs. Tony directed me to an
inconspicuous location at the back corner. I slunk into a seat, observing the room’s
other occupants.
    Most of the magazine’s regular
staff were in their 20s or 30s and dressed in a casual uniform of jeans and t-shirts
or cotton button-downs with rolled up sleeves. A few had the muscular body
types of former athletes, while others had the lean and lanky looks of perpetually
hungry writers.
    I spotted Kill on the
other side of the room, leaning over the table where Miklos sat. The two were
talking. I sensed a tension in their exchange, but they were too far away for
me to hear the substance of their conversation.
    “What’s the story with
Miklos?” I asked Tony in a hushed voice.
    Tony squinted across the
room at the well-dressed art director.
    “Miklos is great,” he
said simply. “He grew up in Hungary. I don’t know too much about his past, but
I get the feeling that he had some issues with the Communist government over
there. He doesn’t say much, but when he does speak, it has an effect. Trent
relies on him as a kind of mentor. One word from Miklos will decide most
questions. Anyway, he’s a good person to know.”
    Quiet instantly enveloped
the room as if a volume knob had been spun to silent. Trent entered like a rock
star commanding a stage. I had been too flustered to notice his full appearance
when we met earlier on the street, but I now saw that he wore a plain black
form-fitting t-shirt that hugged the chiseled contours of his chest and
stomach. The short, tight sleeves accentuated the swell of his well-worked
biceps, which