The flickering fluorescent lights of the newsroom seemed to throb in rhythm with Elias’s headache. He stared at the email, the words blurring despite the magnifying function on his laptop. *“Congratulations, your article, ‘The Shifting Sands of Local Politics,’ has been published in the prestigious ‘City Echo.’ -Sincerely, Katherine Miller, Editor.”* Except, it wasn't *his* article. The byline screamed the name of his colleague, a woman with a penchant for networking and a knack for self-promotion. He rubbed his temples, the muscles tight and protesting. He felt a profound sense of… emptiness, a hollowness that echoed in his chest.
He took a slow, deliberate sip of his cold coffee, the caffeine doing little to jolt him from his stupor. The injustice of it all, the utter lack of acknowledgment for the months of research, the late nights spent crafting each sentence, the meticulous fact-checking – it was a weight he felt pressing down on his shoulders. He considered going to the editor. No, he thought, he'd just be dismissed.
He rose from his chair, the squeak of the plastic legs grating on his already frayed nerves. He walked to the break room, needing to be away. He needed to be alone. The vending machine beckoned, offering a false promise of solace in its brightly colored snacks. He inserted a crumpled dollar bill. Nothing happened. He slammed the machine with a closed fist. Again, nothing. He slumped against the wall, defeated.