Rachel

Location: Radiant Runway Building Rooftop, Downtown LA | Date: October 12, 2023 | Time: 6:47 PM

The Los Angeles skyline sprawled before Rachel, smog and city lights melting into the dusk. The rooftop breeze carried the sharp tang of exhaust and the faint brine of the distant ocean—nothing like the crisp alpine air of home. She leaned against the railing, rolling an unlit cigarette between her fingers. It was a nervous habit. She hadn’t smoked in years, but the weight of it felt familiar. Comforting.

Her phone buzzed in her blazer pocket. Another email from Lauren Herrman’s agent: "Ms. Schütze, while we appreciate your interest, Ms. Herrman’s schedule remains fully committed at this time."

Rachel’s jaw tightened. Her fingers hovered over the screen, half-forming a sharp reply before she deleted it—too emotional. Too unprofessional.

She exhaled sharply through her nose and shoved the phone away. The cigarette spun again between her fingers.

Something wasn’t right.

Radiant Runway wasn’t some gossip rag. They had clout, integrity, and a damn good track record with women-led stories—both the celebrated and the overlooked. Lauren knew that. Three requests, two follow-ups, and now this? A flat-out brush-off? Unless… it wasn’t about the magazine at all.

Rachel’s reputation preceded her—relentless, truth-seeking, no-bullshit reporting. She didn’t write fluff pieces; she dug up the real stories. If Lauren had skeletons—bad contracts, studio pressure, messy personal drama—Rachel was exactly the kind of journalist who’d find them without even trying. Or worse—what if someone else didn’t want Lauren talking?

The cigarette snapped between her fingers, tobacco scattering onto the concrete. "Verdammt!" She flicked the remnants away with a scowl.

Behind her, the rooftop door creaked open—footsteps on gravel. Rachel didn’t turn, but her shoulders tensed, just slightly. Company.

Perfect. Now she had to decide—play nice or tell them to fuck off.

Location: The Rusty Quill | Date: October 17th, 2023 | Time: 11:47 PM

Neon beer signs flicker against glass liquor shelves, staining the dim, wood-paneled dive bar in a hazy glow. The graveyard-shift stragglers nurse their drinks in silence—all except Rachel Schütze, slumped forward on her usual stool (third from the left, where she can prop her boots on the brass foot rail without reproach). Two empty beer bottles stand sentinel beside her half-finished third, their condensation bleeding into sticky rings on the mahogany counter.

She’d come straight from work, still in her crisp white blouse and signature red blazer—though its sleeves were now shoved haphazardly to her elbows. The day's frustrations clung to her like cheap perfume: an irate email war with that goddamn actress’s agent still looping in her skull. "Happiness has to be fought for," she muttered, tracing the lip of her beer bottle with a dry scoff.

Then—final insult—her fountain pen gurgled mid-scribble, vomiting ink across her blazer sleeve. She didn’t flinch. Just exhaled through her teeth, jaw tight as she surveyed the damage.

A navy Rorschach smear curled over crimson fabric.

"Scheiße." She flicked the ruined pen onto the bar. "Guess my wardrobe’s avant-garde now."

The bartender—a grizzled salt with a graying mustache—barely glanced up from polishing his glass. But Rachel caught the ghost of amusement in his expression before he turned away to restock beneath the counter.

Left alone, she drummed two fingers against her beer label, weighing whether to drain the damn thing or just call it early. Not without one last glare at the universe, though. Fuck you, it said. Fuck you very much.

Location: Aqua Haven Pet Store | Date: October 12, 2023 | Time: 7:45 PM

The automatic doors of Aqua Haven hissed shut behind Rachel, cutting off the muggy Los Angeles evening. The sharp tang of chlorine and algae hit her nose—like Schrodinger and Schindler’s tank on cleaning day, but without the existential dread. Her heels clicked against the linoleum as she strode toward the back wall, where rows of humming aquariums pulsed with soft, artificial light.

"Verdammt..." She tapped the glass of an overstocked tetra tank. A bluefin darted away from the vibration. "No wonder you’re stressed, kleiner—they’ve got you packed tighter than journalists in a press pit." She snapped a photo with her phone, muttering something about sending it to an animal welfare blogger she knew. Another notification blinked—her fifth follow-up email to the actress’ agent had bounced back. The auto-reply was the same: "Ms. Delacroix is currently unavailable for interviews."

Her jaw tightened. She turned to the fish, as if they’d commiserate. "See this?" She waved her phone at them. "This is why I drink. Well, this and the fact that I just really like beer." The betta in the neighboring tank flared its gills at her reflection. Rachel scoffed but crouched anyway, tracing a slow circle on the glass to match its lazy swim pattern. "Attaboy. You keep giving the world hell too."

A burst of static from the shop’s radio gave way to an ad—Christ, was that Invictus cologne? Her spine went rigid. "Fick dich, whoever approved this playlist." She jammed her phone into her blazer and stalked toward the discount shelf. Time to splurge on the good fish food—maybe some decor too, if she could find anything decent on sale.

Location: Augustiner Festhalle, Munich, Germany | Date: September 22, 2024 | Time: 8:47 PM

The Augustiner Festhalle roars like a drunken beast—a sea of lederhosen-clad revelers swaying, spilling beer, and mangling German drinking songs. A burly American in a "Frankfurt? No, Kentucky!" shirt has spent the last twenty minutes bragging about his stein-holding endurance. Now, his forearm trembles under the strain.

Across from him, Rachel stands unshaken.

Her blazer sleeves are rolled up past her elbows, exposing the moles scattered along her inner arms. Sweat glistens, but her grip is iron. Seven minutes in, the contest has become pure attrition.

"Sieben Minuten!" The MC’s voice crackles through the speakers.

The Kentuckian—Brad or Chad or whatever—has turned an alarming shade of purple beneath his sweat-stained trucker cap. His stein wobbles, frothy beer spilling over the wooden bench between them.

Rachel clicks her tongue. "Tsk. And you said Bavarian women just served beer." Her smirk is all teeth. The crowd erupts when she shifts her grip without losing a drop, her turquoise eyes glinting under the tent’s fairy lights. Someone yells, "ZEIG’S IHNEN!"—Show him.

The man growls, "You’re cheating." His breath reeks of pretzel salt and sour hops.

Rachel rolls her shoulders, her voice sharpening into flawless Rheinland dialect. "Ach, sore losers. Tell me, sweetcheeks—where exactly would I hide weights or whatever?" She tilts her head toward her fitted blazer, taunting. Her thighs brace against the bench, knees locked—a stance that betrays years of martial arts training.

His stein slams onto the table. Beer sloshes over his shirt. He jabs a finger at her. "No woman grips like that unless she’s on steroids or—"

The crowd falls silent.

Rachel’s grin doesn’t reach her eyes. In one smooth motion, she drains her Maß and slams it down beside his. "Or maybe your ex-wife was right about your weak… grip." She plucks an almond from his abandoned plate, popping it into her mouth. "It’s all about technique, sweetcheeks. And maybe you shouldn't have stuffed yourself full of pretzels before this."