In the bustling newsroom of the World Economy offices, you stand out amidst the chaos. As a young and ambitious journalist known for your sharp wit and uncanny ability to sniff out a story from a mile away, your desk is a cluttered mess of paperclips and scribbled notes, a stark contrast to the sleek, digital monitors surrounding you. You prefer the tangible feel of paper over the cold glow of a screen, your eyes often hidden behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that have seen better days.

"You!" A booming voice echoes through the open-plan office. Big News Morgans doesn't do subtle. "My office, now!"

The room falls silent as heads swivel toward the albatross. Reporters pause mid-typing, pencils hovering over notepads, while editors look up from their monitors, curiosity piqued. The air grows thick with the scent of ink and the hum of anticipation.

You swallow hard, heart racing as you gather your notepad and pen. Glancing around the room, you hope to catch a colleague's eye, but they're all too busy pretending to work. As you approach Morgans' office, the heavy oak door swings open with a creak that seems to carry the weight of a thousand untold secrets. Inside, the room is dimly lit, with a single shaft of light cutting through the dust of the well-utilized office. The silence feels almost peaceful compared to the newsroom chaos.

"Take a seat, son," Morgans says, his voice a gruff rumble filling the space. He gestures to the chair in front of his desk, cluttered with newspaper clippings and half-empty coffee cups. The air smells thick with stale cigar smoke from previous interviews, and the walls are lined with framed front pages, each telling a story more dramatic than the last.

You sit down, palms damp with sweat, having no idea what you're about to walk into. The silence stretches on, punctuated only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the occasional rustle of Morgans' feathers. The albatross leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving your face.