Chapter 1

Brie

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They say never meet your heroes.

I don't know if that's the best advice. 

I do know it's an eye-opening experience.

I was currently sitting in my boss’ office, waiting for the briefing to begin.

The large room slowly filled with coworkers. Editors, assistants, interns, social media managers and graphic designers.

Jennifer Manning had been my idol for as long as I could remember. She was an incredible investigative journalist, interviewer, and for the last decade, the Editor-in-Chief at the renown Epoch Magazine.

My boss. Six years running.

My best friend, Chantelle, had gotten me this job. She went through hell working as an unpaid intern at Fash under Gabriel Armitage. Gabriel was the fashion Editor-in-Chief from hell. But Chantelle was not deterred. As one the most gorgeous, charming woman I'd ever known, it wasn’t long before, she got me a shot at an internship at Epoch magazine, working for Jennifer Manning. The job in question? Personal assistant to her personal assistants. 

“Come on, Brie. Throw your hat in the ring. You're better than half the candidates, and you've already got an in... me,” she said brightly as we walked home to our apartment, only days away from graduating. We'd been friends since we were kids. Growing up along side each other in an offshoot neighbourhood of Mercer City, Langford. 

“I don't know,” I said. “You got that internship because you're you. There's no way Jennifer Manning is going to see anything special in me.”

“Girl, stop,” Lori, my other best friend for life, said. I'd known her just as long. Lori was one of the strongest people I knew, and she was unapologetically true to herself. I'd always loved that about her.

“Stop playing small. You can out write any of those grads gunning for this job. You're talented as all hell. Own it already.”

It had been my literal dream to work for Jennifer.

When, I was a kid, I'd read her articles and watch her interviews on TV, thinking, One day, I'll be a woman like that.

A woman who mattered. 

A woman people listened to, who made people stop and pay attention.

Sadly, I was never the kind of girl or woman who got noticed. I was one people never looked twice at.

I was just... Brie Emerson.

Senior Editor at Epoch Magazine, which meant I organized and edited other people's articles. Someone else usually did the writing.

Not me.

I hid behind line edits, copy edits, bylines, and developmental rewrites.

I was the eldest daughter of a construction worker turned general contractor from Langford.

My mom died when I was twelve. After a long battle with cancer. 

After that, it was just Dad, my little sister Ivy, and me.

And then, I was the one who made sure everyone else was taken care of.  

If it hadn't been for Chantelle and Lori cajoling me into applying for the internship position at Epoch, I wouldn't even have this job.

I'd busted my ass for Jennifer for years before working my way up and finally earning the title of Senior Editor.

It's funny how dreams shift once they collide with reality. 

Because working for a prominent global news magazine and brand in publication media these days?

Brutal. 

Hard work was what kept me in the game.

Hard work proved I could do the job and then some.

I took every assignment, met every deadline, wrote pieces for other publications under Epoch Media's umbrella when they needed help, and did everything Jennifer asked of me.

I worked until my fingers cramped.

All in the hope that, eventually, it would make me someone worth listening to.

But I wasn't quite there yet. 

If I ever would be.

And all of it became even more complicated because of one very elusive man. 

When I became an editor, I thought I'd be working on stories about politics, scientific breakthroughs, and cultural shifts.

But around the time I finished my internship and started climbing the ladder at Epoch...

He showed up.

Yep. 

That’s right. 

Mercer city had its very own caped crusader.

Stratos. 

At least, that’s what everyone called him. 

He was all sleek, clean lines and powerful presence. Bits of black, gold and blue accents highlighted his white armour. He looked like some sort of high tech archangel had dropped from orbit to protect us. And he wasn’t just powerful. He was impossible.

Flight. Super strength. Speed. Invulnerability. And then some. 

He was an anomaly, one powered by the atmosphere itself. Our world seemed to feed his strength somehow. That’s why they called him Stratos. He wasn’t from here, but for reasons no one could quite believe, he chose to protect us. 

Too noble to trust. Too mysterious to ignore.

Jennifer looked up and took in the room.

She crossed to the front of her desk with the kind of confidence that made everyone else sit up and stand a little straighter. She was wearing wide-leg tan trousers and a crisp white blouse, unbuttoned just enough to soften the otherwise immaculate look.

Jennifer’s office was a sleek, white-and-gold finished room, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Mercer City’s downtown core. 

Behind her, the shelves were lined with the books she'd written, alongside framed photographs of her with celebrities, public figures, and artists she'd interviewed. Her many, many awards and  accolades were all carefully arranged like pieces in a curated exhibit. Her Pulitzer Prize shone like a beacon in the morning light, reminding me of my goal. 

Everyone was standing, reviewing notes when Jennifer finally looked up from her computer screen. 

She paced once in front of her desk.

Then she stopped and looked at me.

Anxiety shot through me. 

I cleared my throat, tucked a few loose strands of hair behind my ear, and glanced at the floor.

When I looked back up, she was still watching me with that sharp, appraising stare.

She was in her late fifties, with dark brown hair swept into a flawless updo, neat bangs framing her forehead, and reading glasses perched low on her nose. 

“Raided the fashion closet again, Emerson?” she asked. “That's the second time this month.”

I looked down at the corset top, leather jacket, and wide-leg pants Chantelle had picked out for me and nodded. 

The reality of Jennifer Manning was that she was every bit as terrifying as she was brilliant. Always ten steps ahead. And nothing, I mean nothing, escaped her sharp eye for detail.

“Chantelle has impeccable taste,” Jennifer said matter-of-factly. “You should really get her to set you up with a new wardrobe. This look? It’s working. Definitely better than your usual blazer and jeans combo.”

Ouch. 

And yet…

I nodded. 

“You got caught in an attack,” Neema, my desk mate and workplace bestie, whispered as she sat down beside me on Jennifer's pristine white couch. 

She looked impeccable in a golden-yellow sleeveless mock-neck top and wide-leg pants, her dark hair styled in loose waves.

“It happened right along my route,” I answered quietly.

“Were you trying to get a look at Stratos again? You know that's against policy now,” she said, sing-songing the last part with a teasing smirk.

I let out a huff.

I'd gotten caught up in Stratos and the Ascendants' latest crusade. 

Yeah.

And willingly, I might add.

At least... partly.

Which, as Neema, so casually reminded me, was against Epoch Media’s policy. Too many editors, journalists, photographers, and interns had gotten hurt, or worse, trying to snap photos of Stratos, and his friends, clashing with whatever nightmare he was taking down that week. 

But I was chasing the kind of story that would finally get me some notice.

In a world where a literal demigod-like being could fall out of the sky, the only way to do that was to unmask the air-bender himself or land an interview that answered the questions everyone was asking.

I wanted something from him that would help me tell the story of who he was beneath the suit.

Every news outlet, media brand, and influencer covered everything he did the moment he appeared.

So, I needed the kind of story that would actually cut through the noise.

I wanted a cover story.

I wanted to put myself on the path that would lead me to becoming someone like Jennifer.

Fearless.

Relentless.

Tough.

Decisive.

Writing and telling the stories that mattered to people.

The problem? 

Stratos didn't do interviews. Ever. 

He'd been Epoch's Person of the Year twice, and he'd never shown up for a photoshoot or sat down with a reporter. 

He never gave the press anything.

He just disappeared into thin air. 

He was about as elusive as smoke.

And this morning, I'd come face-to-face with him when a massive alien creature had appeared at the intersection of Loriad Street and Fifth Avenue on my way to the office.

I thought it was my chance to get closer to him and see if I could get what I needed.

It hadn't gone the way I'd expected.

At all. 

And honestly?

I was still processing it. 

Jennifer exhaled sharply. “You really need to move, Emerson. Centennial Park is a known hotspot for cape battles. Wide, open, highly visible. Perfect terrain.”

“Yeah. I know,” I said. 

And I did know, which was exactly why I wasn't planning on moving any time soon. 

“But rent in this city is murder.”

Jennifer smirked. Maybe. Barely.

“Alright, people,” she barked, turning her attention to the room now. “Epoch is facing a crisis. We are losing subscribers at record speed. We need to create an issue that sings. The last three have been mediocre at best.”

Everyone collectively groaned.

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