Edie Jennings pressed her brass-geared fingers against the printing press. The metal was still warm from the morning run. She pulled a fresh page from the stack and held it up to the light. Words mattered in wartime. The right headline could change minds. The right story could shift the tide. She wanted to be more than a reporter writing what happened yesterday. She wanted to decide which truths the future would remember. The Press Bureau stood three blocks from her boarding house. Its stone walls rose four stories high, carved with scrollwork around every window. Arched doorways marked each entrance. Edie had walked past it a dozen times, watching editors stride through those doors with leather cases under their arms. They decided what the city read each morning. They chose which battles made the front page and which soldiers became heroes. She adjusted her hat and stepped toward the main entrance. Her mechanical fingers clicked softly at her sides. Inside that building, someone shaped history every single day. Soon, that someone would be her. She pushed through the heavy doors. The lobby stretched wide before her, filled with the clatter of typewriters and urgent voices. A massive printing press dominated the center of the room. Brass gears turned in perfect rhythm. Polished pipes snaked up toward the ceiling. Steam hissed from valves along its sides. This machine delivered official war statements to every reporter in the city. The press clicked and hummed as fresh pages rolled out, each one carrying approved facts about yesterday's battles. Edie watched an editor collect the sheets and hand them to waiting journalists. They would copy those words exactly. No questions. No changes. That editor controlled what thousands of people would believe about the war. Edie stepped closer to the machine. Her reflection showed in its brass surface. One day, she would stand where that editor stood. One day, her words would shape what history remembered.