The Trainee

The next day, I walked into the office ready to pretend none of it ever happened. Mentally sealed it in a box, shoved that box into a volcano, threw that volcano into the sun. Easy.

Except no.

Because apparently, someone—and by someone, I mean the entire city’s media department—thought it would be such a great idea to air the training experience on live TV. A feel-good segment, they said. “Highlighting our brave new recruits and the community support,” they said.

And there I was. Plastered across every screen in the building. Me. Covered in fake blood, limp in HotGuy’s arms like a swooning romance novel protagonist. The camera zoomed in on my face at one point. Like. Zoomed. In.

I was still seated at my desk, hand slowly dragging down my face as I glared at the office TV like I could melt it with sheer willpower, when Cub walked in. Whistling. Cheerfully. Like he hadn’t just orchestrated my public emotional destruction by sending me to that training in the first place.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, tone entirely too smug for someone pretending to be innocent. “Sleep well? You were on the news. Twice, actually. They used your scene as the intro and the closing.”

I didn’t say anything. Just let my head drop to the desk with a solid thunk.

He didn’t stop. Of course he didn’t.

“Oh, come on,” he added, nudging my shoulder with the back of his hand. “You looked great. Like a real professional victim. I think I even saw someone post fanart.”

I groaned into the desk. “I’m quitting. I’m moving to the mountains. Changing my name.”

Cub laughed. Loudly.

TV: “—and there he is, folks, the hero of the hour, HotGuy himself rescuing another civilian—”

Thunk. My forehead met the desk again.

Death was sounding more and more appealing.

“I need to go fishing…” I mumbled into the desk, voice muffled by the wood, soul leaking out of my body like a punctured balloon.

That, of course, only made Cub grin. I could feel the grin. I didn’t have to look.

“Oh yeah?” he said, already reaching for the remote. “Let’s catch today’s weather update for your fishing trip—but first, more of that heroic rescue footage!”

Click.

The volume jumped. The office TV was suddenly blaring triumphant music like someone just won the lottery of emotional crises. And there I was. Again. On screen. Limply draped in HotGuy’s arms like a fainting princess. They even added slow motion. SLOW. MOTION.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I groaned, voice rising in disbelief.

Cub casually leaned against my desk, sipping his coffee like this was the best morning of his life. “Look at that form,” he said, gesturing toward the screen. “He lifted you like a sack of ethically-sourced potatoes.”

“I'm going to vanish into the sea and never come back.”

“Careful, the fish might recognize you now. You’re basically famous.”

TV Reporter: “—a heartwarming scene as HotGuy rescues yet another civilian with incredible poise—”

I sat up just long enough to throw a stapler at the power button on the remote. Missed. Cub didn’t flinch.

He just chuckled. “You know, we should frame a screenshot. Put it in the break room.”

I stared at him. Dead-eyed. “I hope your coffee curdles."