Though it is lying face down on the desk, he recognizes the texture of that vibration. It isn't the light quiver of the advertising team’s group chat, nor the indifferent buzz of his family thread. This is different—a cautious yet heavy signal.
He catches his breath for a moment before flipping the phone over. His intuition is correct. It is the number of a government official who leaks information to him personally. The text is short:
[ Government R likely to permit filming of the space battleship landed on the front lines, limited to war correspondents. ]
The editor reads the sentence over and over. "Finally... we get to film a space battleship up close."
He looks up and stares out the window. The city is moving as usual. Cars stop at the signals, and people cross the street clutching their coffees. Yet, somewhere far away, a battleship unlike anything humanity has ever seen is touching down on the earth.
His gaze shifts toward the window-side seat.
Natasha.
The monitor's glow washes her face in white. Her lips are tightly set, and her fingers tap the keyboard without rest. He knows her drive and persistence better than anyone. She has a power to dig into a scene and drag something out of it. At the same time, however, she lacks a brake called neutrality.
That point always weighs on his mind.
The editor rises quietly from his seat. The sound of the chair scraping the floor is buried in the low hum of the office. He circles the hallway and re-enters the workspace.
He approaches her slowly. Feigning indifference, he glances at the monitor over her shoulder.
In that instant, his heart sinks. A title is clearly etched across the top of the screen:
< Government R Prepares Space Battleship as Attack Target; This War Must End >
Sharp sentences follow beneath it—lines aimed directly at the government's stance of treating the alien battleship, which appeared in the form of peace, as a target for attack. Every sentence glints on the screen like a thin, cold blade.
"Once again, we attempt to define the first alien civilization humanity has ever contacted under the name of 'threat'."
"Whom does this attitude serve—reviewing a preemptive strike while excluding the possibility of dialogue?"
The writing does not stop. The criticism grows sharper, and the emotions become more overt. It is closer to a manifesto than a news article.
The editor’s throat goes dry. If this article goes out, the permission to film the space battleship might vanish into thin air. No, an even greater fallout could follow.
Without a word, he gives her shoulder a light tap. Natasha looks up. Her eyes are sharp and clear—the eyes of someone already prepared for a fight.
The editor stares at her for a moment before speaking in a low voice.
"Wait. In my office."
The air in the office changes the moment the door shuts. Natasha’s face is slightly flushed, and her eyes shimmer with a gloss of fury. Only the faint hum of the fluorescent lights and the ticking of the wall clock fill the room.
Natasha remains standing, and the editor-in-chief does not sit behind his desk. They stand facing each other. Her face is burning red, and her gaze shows no intention of backing down. It is the expression of someone who has already braced for the consequences.
The editor closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them. He speaks in a low, firm voice.
"Are you insane? Are you a fool?"
The words aren't exactly a shout; they are more like a suppressed gasp. He treasures her—her passion, her tenacity, and even that stubborn sense of justice that drives her to dig for the truth until the end. He knows better than anyone that this very spirit is what propelled this newspaper to where it is today.
But now, it is a different matter. He grips the edge of the desk tightly. He wants to scream. He wants to yell at her to delete the draft right now, that this is a suicidal act.
"Natasha... should I start naming them?"
Mikhail ****ev. Sergei ****lov. Sasha *****va. Anastasia ******va. Anna *****it. Marina *********va.
"Should I keep going?"
His voice is low, but it is thick with a mixture of suppressed rage and fear. A heavy silence settles in. The air in the room sinks weightily.
The names he just listed: a reporter sued for writing articles critical of the government, an editorial director whose family was threatened, a senior journalist currently awaiting trial behind bars. Some fled abroad, some abandoned their pen names, and some no longer write at all. Natasha knows these names aren't just anecdotes—they are warnings.
The editor continues slowly. "You know what happened to these people."
Her pupils flicker almost imperceptibly.
"We have a new law now," he says, as if chewing through every single word. "You can’t even use the word 'war.' It’s the new law."
As that word drops into the room, the atmosphere sinks even lower. In official announcements, terms like "Special Security Operation" or "Preemptive Defensive Measures" are allowed, but the directness of "war" is taboo.
He raises his fist as if to slam it onto the desk, but ultimately stops. His fist trembles in mid-air for a moment before slowly lowering.
"You know what happens if you violate it," his voice cracks. "Does this make any sense to you, you idiot?"
Natasha finally speaks. "I know. I know what happens."
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
"You know, yet you write a headline like this? Right now, you're either an ally or an enemy. There is no middle ground. Even if we seem to be losing ground because of the spacecraft, we have laws. We must follow them. You’ve always been on the side of the Motherland. So why?"
Natasha’s eyes waver. "I am not supporting 'U'. I just... I just want it to end. Too many young men, too many civilians are dying. It’s at a standstill right now. I don't think it should start again."
She catches her breath and adds, "I won't post this article domestically. I won't let it cause trouble for the paper."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm going to submit it to an independent newspaper blog run by a friend in Germany."
The moment those words leave her mouth, the editor’s face hardens. He shakes his head slowly but resolutely.
"No. No. Absolutely not." His voice rises. "The R-Intelligence Agency isn't stupid. Overseas servers? VPNs? Alias accounts? It’s all useless. They’ll track it in no time."
He takes a step closer. "Once you're marked, it's over. Not just for you, but that friend will be in danger, too. Never."
His voice is low and cracked—not out of anger, but out of fear. He catches his breath and plays his final card.
"Give it up. Promise me... and I’ll send you to the front lines as a war correspondent."
Her eyes flicker.
"Write about the spacecraft. The atmosphere inside, the soldiers' reactions, the reality of the alien battleship. We go see it and write it ourselves."
Natasha drops her gaze, her eyes shifting slowly. The front lines? She could go there... if she goes there, she can gather more information. Things that are currently mere speculation could be verified with her own eyes. And Vadim! There is a chance she might meet him.
A very faint smile touches the corners of her lips.
"I understand, Chief. I’ll give up the article." She pauses, then adds, "In exchange, you must send me to the front lines."
The editor-in-chief exhales a long breath. It is as if an invisible weight resting on his shoulders has lightened just a bit.
"I’ll keep my word, so give up on that article," he says shortly.
He treasures this young reporter, who is somehow different from the rest of her generation. She is honest to the point of recklessness and passionate to the point of danger. That is exactly why he wants to protect her.
However, he does not know. He does not know that as Natasha leaves the room, she briefly opens a chat window with her friend in Germany. Nor does he know that the draft file she has yet to send remains sitting in her cloud folder.
As she steps out of the office building, a cold wind strikes her face. Checking her wristwatch, she quickens her pace.
Inside the massive exhibition hall in the heart of the capital—a structure of glass and steel—a major event is underway. It is barely a ten-minute walk from the newspaper office. Only a few blocks separate this place from the newsroom where reports from the front lines pour in, yet the atmosphere is entirely different.
Especially in Sector B, the Korean Cosmetics Pavilion.
Korean companies occupy more than half of the booths. Rows of unfamiliar Hangul logos stand beneath colorful signboards. The term "K-Beauty" echoes from every direction.
Bright lights. Upbeat music. Air thick with the scent of perfume and powder. Laughter and the clicking of camera shutters. It is a world removed from the war.
In Sector B, where the crowds are particularly thick, Natasha finds a woman.
"Emma."
"Ah, Natasha!"
The two naturally weave through the crowd, pretending to examine organic cosmetics.
"I heard this ingredient even got vegan certification." "The scent is nice. Is it lavender-based?"
On the surface, it is light conversation. In their hands are tester creams and brochures. But their steps toward a corner are calculated. They move to a spot behind some decorative plants, nearly a blind spot for the security cameras. Though they are smiling, their eyes tell a different story.
Emma is a journalist who manages an independent blog under a major German media outlet, covering international issues. She and Natasha first met at a graduate school seminar, and since entering the professional world, they have occasionally exchanged information.
A few days ago, when Natasha received Emma’s message saying she was coming to the capital to cover the "2026 Beauty Expo," Natasha felt it wasn't a mere coincidence.
Now, the distance between them is barely a span. Natasha speaks in a low voice.
"Emma. I have information that the government is looking for a weakness in the spacecraft."
Emma’s hand pauses for a split second, but her expression remains unchanged. She continues to peer at a sample bottle.
"The battleship's shield is down, and our nuclear control has been restored," Natasha whispers while flipping through a brochure. "Military equipment is back online as well."
A brief silence follows.
"This means... the war is about to resume."
The music grows louder. An MC is announcing event winners over a microphone. A burst of applause erupts. Emma, maintaining her smile, moves only her lips.
"Are you sure?"
Natasha’s eyes remain fixed and steady. "I heard it from a reliable source." In truth, that source was Vadim.
Emma tilts her head slightly. "If that information goes out before the official announcement... you’re in danger."
"I know."
"Then why tell me?"
Natasha catches her breath before responding. "It’s blocked here. Every single word is censored."
Emma’s gaze briefly brushes Natasha’s face. "So you want to break it in Germany first?"
Natasha doesn't answer. Instead, she brings up something else.
"I’m going to the front lines soon as a war correspondent. I can't cause trouble with an article before I go."
A tiny spark glints in Emma's eyes. A short silence passes between them. Under the exhibition lights, the smell of perfume, music, and laughter mix together—yet the conversation they are having is completely alienated from the space.
Emma finally speaks in a low tone.
"Organize the data and encrypt it. Don't send it to me directly. Send it in stages. Use Telegram."
The corners of Natasha’s mouth lift ever so slightly.
"Understood. Be careful."
"You too."
As the exchange concludes, the two finish their conversation while picking out cosmetics as if nothing had happened.
It was then.
A tall woman strode through the exhibition aisle, the sharp heels of her stilettos clicking rhythmically against the floor—tap, tap, tap.
She wore a shirt with a prominent Prada logo. Her gestures were exaggerated, her hand movements practiced as she found the perfect angles even without a selfie stick. She swept over her surroundings, her finger never leaving the shutter button.
The onlookers glanced her way before quickly losing interest.
"Must be an influencer." "Those types are here every day," someone muttered.
Feigning indifference, the woman lifted her phone. She moved it in a slow panorama as if capturing the wide view of the booths. The lens swept over Natasha and Emma.
Click.
A very short, nearly inaudible shutter sound.
Then, once more.
Click.
She had captured Natasha and Emma in a swift, candid motion. The woman didn’t even stop to check the screen. She turned immediately toward another booth.
Tap, tap.
The sound of her high heels faded into the distance.
And meanwhile... to an invisible server somewhere, those two freshly captured photos were already being transmitted.
At that same hour, inside a military vehicle bound for the border, Vadim was staring out the window.
A soldier follows orders—regardless of whether the spacecraft had provided help or not. From this moment on, they are the enemy. The beginning or the end of the war did not matter. When the Motherland speaks, he moves; he acts.
Vadim decided not to overthink it. That was the very reason for a soldier's existence.