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At the sound of our collective title, my deskmate and I look up. The 'Torch' managing editor, Christopher, is twisted around in his chair, staring at us. "Did you get those cutlines to Angelica?"

I point at my deskmate at the same time he points at me.

"Oh, no-no-no," I say, jabbing my finger closer. "You said you'd do it."

He pushes his glasses up onto his forehead, his expression overly patient— something I've learned means he's truly exasperated. "You know, I love these imaginary little scenarios you like to invent—"

"It's not imaginary!" I swivel to face him in the small space beneath our desk. The arm of my chair bangs into his, narrowly missing his fingers, earning me a glare in response. "You literally said yesterday that you'd take care of the cutlines! Is your memory really that bad?"

His expression cools. "I said I'd take care of formatting the 'headlines'. Is your hearing really that bad?"

"Hey!" Christopher barks, waving an arm to get our attention. "I don't care if one of you said you'd be doing the cancan lines on a Mississippi steamboat—we need the cutlines 'now'. Get it done."

Sometimes I wonder if Christopher thinks we're running the 'Washington Post' or something.

My deskmate puts on his best politician voice. "You know what? It's okay. I'll handle the cutlines too." He shoots me a nauseating smile. "No problem."

Three Wellborn, everyone: suck-up of the highest order.

If I'd known accepting a grunt internship with the 'Torch' would land me at a desk with the most obnoxious and devious person I've ever met, I might have given the decision a second thought. But my first and most important goal at college was to land a spot—'any' spot—on the school newspaper.

The university's journalism program is highly competitive and accessible only to existing students through an application process. Most of the other freshmen who'll apply in the spring will have their sights on broadcasting, spending fall semester on one of the dozens of school-centric podcasts or clawing their way into spots on campus video channels, like the 'Torch''s biggest rival, 'Two Minute News'. They're a short-form video daily news update run by a revolving door of "reporters" who do little more than shuttle gossip around campus. Unfortunately, their viewership leaves the 'Torch' in the dust.

But they're also oversaturated with content creators, which is why securing my place at the 'Torch' is essential. Having writing credits as a freshman will boost my application beyond the competition. I'm sort of counting on it, because when you've got your long-term sights set on a job in the struggling print-media industry, failing to get into the journalism program at a state school is not an option.

Three must feel the same, because he hasn't quit yet, despite the hours we've spent bumping elbows and trading long, silent looks of disdain in the quiet newsroom. Our superiors have made it clear that as long as we get our work done, we're free to attempt to murder each other with our eyes as much as we wish. When we 'don't' get our work done, we get publicly dragged for it in front of the rest of the staff, like today.

I try to remind myself that future Pulitzer Prize winners don't let flies like Three get under their skin. But if he thinks I'm going to let him take over the cutlines like he's picking up my slack, he's not as smart as he wants everyone to believe.

"Oh no, don't worry about it," I say sweetly. "I'm happy to take one for the team."

"But you'll have to stay late." Three reaches over and pats my hand lightly. "Really, I don't mind."

I can't fight my grimace as I pick up his hand with two fingers and drop it back on his side of the desk. "Ew."

Three grins, knowing he's won. Because that's the goal: whoever gets a rise out of the other first wins. It's a twisted little game we're playing every second we spend together.

He flicks his gaze toward Christopher. "I've got the cutlines. I'll have them to you before I leave tonight."

"I don't know how to convey to you how little I care," says Christopher. "I thought I did a good job of it earlier with that line about the cancan, but it seems your skulls are getting thicker by the second. Don't talk to me again until they're done. I don't care who does them. I'm not your babysitter."

Three turns to me, tapping his pen against his lower lip. There is a victorious fire in his eyes that makes me want to grab the nearest sharp object and gouge them out of their sockets. "I guess it's all me. I'm pretty sure you have a job to get to."