A Journey from Bitterness to Truth

“Tomorrow, we’ve got another client swinging by.” Hala finally finished typing up the day’s work, ran a spellcheck, and printed out several copies. She handed out the A4 sheets like a dealer at a poker game, “Take a look at the script, folks. If it’s all good, we’ll roll with it for next month’s launch. I’ve planted a ton of forks in the road, including two tragic endings–one where the lead bites the dust and another where the player kicks the bucket.”

“Oh man, those endings are gonna get us roasted alive,” someone groaned.

Baxter, tying her long hair back with a scrunchie, said, “Matilda, tough first day, huh? Burning the midnight oil already.”

“No worries,” Matilda replied, genuinely enjoying the vibe here. There was none of that cutthroat competition she’d seen in other workplaces.

“Let’s circle back for a quick meeting later. Orson, you done with those sketches?”

“Nope.” Orson had bags under his eyes big enough to qualify for carry–on luggage, a sure sign of sleep deprivation. Matilda half–expected him to face–plant into his monitor and snooze. “Hala just mentioned a client coming tomorrow, and I’m not in the mood to play host. Whoever’s got the bigger cojones can take it.”

Luna quipped, “That’s practically a dig at me.”

“I might be well–endowed in that department,” Hala added, “but I’m not going. Matilda, your turn.”

Who was this client that they all dodged like a pop quiz?

Being the newbie, Matilda couldn’t really say no. “Guess I’ll give it a shot.”

“Use those good looks to charm our client, will you? Maybe they’ll cough up a few million for our startup fund,” Orson said, eyeing Matilda as he tweaked a graphic. “You’re passable, with a bit of effort. Thanks in advance.”

“If I had a few million, I’d ditch this whole girly sim game in a heartbeat!” Yoshi piped up from a corner. “I’d be crafting the next big MMO!”

“Someone pass Yoshi a pillow,” Orson said drily.

Baxter and Yoshi looked baffled. “What for?”

“He needs to dream.”

At ten in the evening, Matilda wrapped up another long shift and strolled past the now–deserted marketing department. The place was a ghost town, which told her they didn’t burn the candle at both ends as her department did. Chloe had probably clocked out hours ago.

Matilda flexed her wrists, feeling surprisingly at home with this gig. It had reignited a spark in her that had been dormant for far too long. As she stepped outside, she noticed a light drizzle had begun, casting a chilly dampness over the night.

Orson caught up to her, umbrella in hand–a precaution he took ever since the rainy season started, keeping it stashed at the studio just in case.

He watched Matilda stand under the shelter of the doorway, taking his sweet time before he finally said, “Come here.”

Matilda was taken aback for a moment, her gaze fixed on his face in the dim light. The studio was nestled within an office building, and by ten at night, all the lights on the first floor were off, leaving only

the emergency exits and the elevator glowing faintly. In the shadowy light, Orson’s face seemed distant, almost otherworldly.

Sensing her hesitation, Orson clicked his tongue impatiently. “Come. Here.”

With a start, Matilda shuffled over to him.

Orson opened his umbrella, sheltering her from the rain. He walked her to the curb to hail a cab. As she was about to thank him, Orson had already turned, striding away

with his umbrella.

She had wanted to offer him a ride as a token of gratitude. Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

But judging by his pace, Orson probably lived close to the office.

Matilda refocused, gave the driver an address, and the car pulled away from the building.

The rain continued, persistent. After a while, a figure emerged from the shadows of the office block. His face was soaked, and he clutched a slender umbrella. He stared after the departing taxi, lost in thought, then chuckled softly to himself as if realizing the absurdity of his actions.

Raindrops cascaded off his face. Yvan pursed his lips, his expression silent, pale, and detached. His pupils were as cold as the drizzly night, mirroring the weather outside. The surroundings were drenched, yet a small, dry corner marked where someone had