the fishbowl

Derek snatched the latte from my hand like it was a prop in his personal biopic, slurping it down without so much as a nod. "Not bad, newbie. You got the foam right, most rookies drown it in that hipster froth." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a milky smear on his cuff, and plopped into the chair across from mine, his bulk making the guest seat groan like it was auditioning for a horror flick. Up close, he was a walking LinkedIn ad: cologne that punched like brass knuckles, a watch that cost more than my rent back in Chicago, and a smile that said he'd networked his way out of a trust fund cradle. "Alright, shadow boy. Notes session in the fishbowl. You sit quiet, you listen, you don't speak unless spoken to. Got it? Vic's got ears everywhere, and I don't need your Midwestern mouth derailing my flow."

I nodded, biting back the urge to quip about his "flow" sounding more like a clogged drain. The fishbowl was Apex lingo for the glass-walled conference room at the floor's heart, a transparent cage where ideas got vivisected under fluorescent glare. As we hustled over, Derek monologued like a tour guide on Adderall: "We're breaking a pilot for *Neon Requiem*, Vic's baby. Cyberpunk noir, hackers versus megacorps, all that Blade Runner wet dream shit. My job? Polish the turd into gold. Yours? Fetch more lattes when I snap."

Inside the fishbowl, the air was thicker, stale coffee and the faint ozone of a projector humming to life. Three others waited: a wiry guy in thrift-store specs and a faded hoodie, scribbling furiously in a battered notebook; a no-nonsense woman in her forties with a bun tight as a budget line and a tablet scarred from too many slashes; and there, in the corner like a glitch in the matrix, the curly-haired woman from across the aisle, leaning against the wall with arms crossed over a band tee that screamed indie cred, her dark eyes flicking my way with that same quiet spark.

Derek commandeered the head of the table, firing up the projector with a flourish. The screen bloomed with the pilot's cold open: rain-slicked streets in a neon-drenched sprawl, a hacker ghosting through firewalls like a digital phantom. "Alright, fam. Episode one, beat three. Theo,", he jabbed a thumb at the wiry guy, "your anti-hero's too quippy, feels like Deadpool crashed a Philip K. Dick party. Tone it down, or Vic'll gut it." The guy, Theo, apparently, grunted, not looking up, his pen a blur across the page.

The woman with the bun jumped in next, voice like gravel under tires: "And the chase scene? CGI budget's ballooning. We lose the hoverbike flip, or we lose our shirts." Derek nodded her way. "Noted, Marla. Always the voice of fiscal reason."

I perched on the edge, notebook open but blank, absorbing the rhythm, the back-and-forth like a tennis match on steroids, volleys of "But the arc!" and "Screw the arc, what's the hook?" Derek dominated, tossing out jargon like grenades: "We need more stakes, make her lose the implant, amp the body horror." The curly-haired woman finally stirred, pushing off the wall with the grace of a cat spotting a laser pointer. "Stakes are fine, Derek. It's the voice that's off. Your megacorp villain sounds like a Bond baddie with a thesaurus. Give him grit, make him whisper threats that stick like smog in your lungs."

Her voice was velvet over razor wire, low and unhurried, cutting through the noise without raising the volume. Derek's jaw tightened, but he played it cool, flashing that whitening-strip grin. "Always with the poetry, Lena. Scripts are blueprints, not sonnets. But hey, noted." *Lena*. The name fit her like a well-worn script page, edgy, layered. She didn't push back, just shrugged and slid into a seat across from me, her knee brushing the table leg with a soft thud. Up close, the tattoos peeked: a quill pen dripping ink into a cracked hourglass on her forearm, symbols of time slipping through fingers. Fitting for this gig, I figured, chasing words before they evaporated.

The notes dragged, forty minutes of dissection that left the script bleeding red ink, until Derek clapped his hands like a ringmaster. "Solid. We'll reconvene post-lunch. Newbie, you're on script fetch duty. Pull the latest draft from the drive and courier it to Vic's office. Door's always open, but knock like your balls depend on it." Laughter rippled, Theo's a dry bark, Marla's a snort. Lena's? A quiet huff that felt aimed at Derek's back as he swaggered out.

I lingered, pretending to pack my notes, stealing a glance at her. She was highlighting a page, highlighter cap between her teeth, oblivious or pretending to be. "First days are a bitch," she said without looking up, the words muffled around the cap. I froze, had she read my mind, or just the deer-in-headlights vibe radiating off me?

"Feels more like a hazing ritual," I shot back, aiming for casual. "You been here long enough to know the safe words?"

She spat out the cap, lips curving into a half-smile that hit like a plot twist. "Safe words? In this town? Honey, there are none. But if you're asking for survival tips: coffee black, ego armored, and never trust a latte order." Her eyes met mine then, full tilt, warm, wicked, with a depth that whispered stories I wasn't ready to hear. "I'm Lena, by the way. Script wrangler and occasional sanity check. You?"

"Alex Rivera. The Chicago ghost chaser, apparently." I extended a hand, pulse kicking up a notch. Hers was cool, callused from... pens? Keyboards? The grip lingered a beat too long, electric.

"Ghosts, huh? We got plenty of those here, dead projects haunting the drives, execs promising the moon then ghosting you at dawn." She leaned back, twirling the highlighter like a baton. "Vic's got you shadowing Derek? Bold move. Or suicidal. He's got the charm of a used car salesman and the ethics of a reality TV producer."

Before I could volley back, Marla bustled in, stacking her tablet with a clatter. "Lena, you slacking? Vic wants those revisions by two, or it's your ass on the altar." Lena rolled her eyes, but there was no heat in it, sisterhood forged in fire, maybe.

"Duty calls," Lena said, standing with a stretch that pulled her tee taut. "Don't let Derek grind you to dust, Alex. Some of us are rooting for the underdog." She winked, quick, conspiratorial, and vanished into the scrum, leaving a wake of vanilla and ink that clung to the air like a promise.

I exhaled, the fishbowl suddenly too small, too glassed-in. Rooting for me? In a den of vipers, that felt like a loaded gift. Shaking it off, I beelined for my desk, logging into the drive with fingers that fumbled the password twice. The script file bloomed: *Neon Requiem - Pilot v3.2 - DRAFT - DO NOT DISTRIBUTE.* I skimmed the cold open, Lena was right; the villain's monologue dripped purple prose, all "corporate overlords devouring the soul of innovation." Vic would eviscerate it. Heart pounding, I printed a hard copy, fifty pages of single-spaced tension, and headed for the executive wing.

The elevator ride up two floors felt like ascending to Olympus, the air growing crisper, the hum quieter. Vic's office was at the end of a hall lined with framed posters: her hits, gold-embossed, staring down like judgmental ancestors. I knocked, three raps, firm but not frantic, and her voice sliced through: "Enter."

She was at her desk, a slab of ebony that dwarfed the chaos of marked-up scripts and a single wilting orchid in a crystal vase. Sunlight slanted through blinds, carving her face in shadow and light, cheekbones sharp as unanswered callbacks. She didn't look up from her screen, just gestured to the side table. "Rivera. Leave it there. And close the door."

I did, the click echoing like a gavel. The room smelled of leather and that bergamot smoke, wrapping around me like a noose. As I turned to bolt, her voice stopped me cold: "A word. Sit."

Shit. I dropped into the armchair, plush, swallowing, while she steepled her fingers, eyes finally lifting to pin me. "Derek's reports are... enthusiastic. Says you're eager. But eagerness without edge is amateur hour. Tell me, Alex: why *this* town? Why *us*? And spare me the 'dreams' bullshit. I want the scar tissue."

The question hung, probing like a cavity search. I swallowed, mind racing, honesty or polish? "The scar tissue? Lost three years to a job that filed my soul into folders. Wrote scripts in the margins, pitched to crickets. Apex... you... you're the spark that doesn't fizzle. I want to build something that bites back."

She held my gaze, unblinking, then leaned forward, a predator scenting blood. "Bites back. Cute. But building's a blood sport. One wrong swing, and you're the one bleeding." A pause, heavy as a blackout curtain. "Prove you're not just another transplant with a laptop and a grudge. By end of week, I want a pitch. Five pages. On *Neon Requiem*'s soft underbelly, something Derek's too busy schmoozing to see. Impress me, or pack your duffel."

My throat went desert-dry. A pitch? Day one? But under the panic, that spark flared hotter, defiance, hunger. "Consider it bled."

Vic's lips twitched, not a smile, but close. "Out." I rose, script deposited, and fled to the elevator, heart hammering like a bass drop.

Back on the floor, the lunch rush was in full swing, caterers wheeling carts of poke bowls and acai smoothies, the air thick with kale and conquest. Derek waved me over from the break room, mid-bite into a quinoa wrap. "Vic eat you alive? Nah, she'll warm up. Or freeze you out. Either way, fetch me a water, Fiji, if they've got it."

I grabbed a bottle, tap, screw Fiji, and slid it his way with a little too much force. It sloshed, dripping on his sleeve. "Oops. Hazard of the job."

His eyes narrowed, but before he could snap, a ping cut through, Slack, urgent red. Vic's channel: *All hands: Emergency brainstorm. Fishbowl. Now.* The floor stirred like a hive kicked, bodies converging.

I fell in step with the rush, catching Lena's eye across the chaos. She mouthed *You good?* I nodded, but the lie tasted bitter. Emergency brainstorm? On day one? This wasn't a gauntlet anymore. It was a minefield.

And as we piled into the fishbowl, Vic striding in like a storm front, tablet in hand, I couldn't shake the feeling: one wrong step, and the whole glittering facade would blow sky-high.

To be continued…

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