"LuminousLoom," Bryce said to the driver as he settled into the back seat. The cab eased away from the curb, merging into the steady flow of morning traffic.
The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror, making little effort to conceal the surprise flickering across his face.
"What?" Bryce asked, irritation already creeping into his voice.
"Do you work there," the driver asked as he steered onto the main road, "or are you heading there for something else?"
Bryce frowned.
"Why does it matter?"
The driver gave a quiet laugh.
"Because you don’t look like someone who works at LuminousLoom, and you don’t exactly look like someone who’d be visiting either. Everyone who goes there arrives in luxury cars worth more than most people make in a lifetime." He paused before adding with unmistakable admiration, "I’ve even heard they use real gold inside that building."
Bryce didn’t bother responding.
The conversation only intensified the dull ache throbbing behind his temples.
He reached into his pocket, slipped on his earbuds, and started his favorite playlist. Under ordinary circumstances, the familiar songs would have lifted his spirits, but today every melody dissolved into meaningless background noise beneath the turmoil occupying his mind.
The cab glided through the city’s bustling streets, threading its way between streams of traffic and towering skyscrapers whose glass facades shimmered beneath the morning sun. Minutes later, it slowed before an imposing building that dominated everything surrounding it.
Bryce turned toward the window.
LuminousLoom.
Even from outside, the building commanded attention.
After paying the driver, Bryce climbed out of the cab and walked toward the entrance. Its security was every bit as formidable as Bryce had imagined.
Several armed guards stood watch at the entrance, their disciplined gazes scrutinizing every person who approached.
Their rigid posture and impassive expressions made it abundantly clear they were there to do far more than create an impression.
As Bryce approached, uncertainty tightened inside him. How exactly was he supposed to convince them he had been called there before they threw him out? Drawing a steadying breath, he stopped before them.
"I’m here for an interview," he said, unable to completely suppress the slight tremor in his voice.
Unlocking his phone, he quickly opened the email and held it out, the invitation being the only proof he possessed.
One of the guards studied the screen briefly before raising his eyes to Bryce.
"There are no interviews taking place here today," he said, his deep, commanding voice leaving no room for dispute. "This invitation is fake. Did you forge it to get yourself in here?" he added, drawing amused laughter from the other guards.
A chill coursed through Bryce.
He couldn’t tell whether it was those men’s commanding presence or the absolute certainty behind his words that unsettled him more.
If the invitation wasn’t genuine...
Then who had sent it?
"Honestly, you could have at least made an effort to dress the part before coming here claiming something like that." another guard remarked, his gaze sweeping Bryce up and down with open disdain, provoking even louder laughter from the others.
"Get lost, kid," a third guard said with a dismissive wave. "Thanks for the entertainment, though."
Before Bryce could decide what to do, whether to walk away, plead his case, or somehow come to terms with the crushing disappointment of watching his hopes collapse before him, the towering glass doors behind the guards slid open.
A woman emerged with measured confidence, dressed in a crisp white blouse beneath a tailored blazer, a fitted skirt, and elegant heels.
A neatly organized stack of files rested against one arm as she walked directly toward Bryce.
"Bryce Jones?" she asked.
"Yes."
The answer escaped him instantly as relief swept through him so abruptly that he nearly cried tears of joy.
"This way."
She turned and walked back inside without another word. The guards immediately stepped aside, clearing the entrance for him. Bryce summoned every ounce of restraint he possessed to stop himself from raising his middle finger at them as he walked past.
His heartbeat quickened as he followed the woman into the building.
The lobby rose through two expansive floors, its polished marble mirrored the radiance cascading from the lights overhead, while every detail of the interior exuded a restrained opulence that made the entire building feel almost surreal.
Employees moved with effortless efficiency, every one of them impeccably dressed and wholly absorbed in their work.
Several pairs of eyes drifted toward him and lingered as he passed, although no one said a word, he already knew what they were thinking.
He stood out.
His casual clothes alone were enough to announce that he didn’t belong in a place like this.
As they ventured deeper inside, an unfamiliar sensation stirred along the side of his neck where the mark lay, as it started pulsing.
His hand rose instinctively to it, hoping to soothe the strange sensation, but the moment his fingers brushed against it, the feeling intensified. Along with it came Vincent’s unmistakable presence.
Why is it pulsing?
The question echoed through Bryce’s mind as he continued after the woman toward a bank of elevators.
One of them bore a discreet plaque engraved with a single word.
Private.
She guided him into one of the remaining elevators instead. The doors slid shut, and the elevator ascended in complete silence.
With every passing floor, the pulsing intensified.
Something twisted restlessly inside him, clawing at him with growing urgency, as though an unseen force desperately wanted something and expected Bryce to understand exactly what it was.
A thin sheen of perspiration formed across his skin as he struggled to maintain his composure.
"Are you alright?" the woman asked, her brows knitting with quiet concern.
"Yes." Bryce let out an awkward laugh. "Just... nervous."
The elevator came to a smooth, silent stop.
The doors glided open and the woman stepped out first, Bryce followed her into an eerily silent corridor.
That floor had fewer employees than the bustling lobby below. A quiet stillness lingered throughout the corridor, broken only by the soft rhythm of footsteps and the occasional murmur drifting from behind closed doors.
The woman stopped before one of the offices and knocked.
"Come in."
A man’s voice answered from inside.
She pushed the door open.
Bryce’s heartbeat immediately turned unsteady.
If Vincent was inside and had arranged all of this, perhaps he would finally get the answers that had eluded him since the previous night.
If Vincent himself wanted him there, then that could only work in his favor. After all, an inexplicable craving to see him again had taken root inside him.
If Vincent wasn’t...
Then perhaps this interview truly had nothing to do with him.
In that case, Bryce decided he would simply keep his distance, do his job for as long as possible, and hope Vincent never discovered he worked here.
Judging from the way Vincent had left earlier, he hadn’t looked like a man eager to cross paths with him again.
Bryce couldn’t shake the feeling that the moment Vincent learned he had become one of his employees, dismissal would follow soon after.
Steeling himself, Bryce stepped into the office behind the woman.
She remained only long enough for him to enter before quietly withdrawing and closing the door behind her.
Three men dressed in impeccably tailored suits sat behind a long conference table.
Vincent wasn’t among them.
For reasons Bryce couldn’t explain, disappointment flickered through him despite the relief that accompanied it.
Even so, Vincent’s presence still lingered around him with startling clarity, and the mark against his neck continued pulsing with unwavering insistence.
"Good morning," Bryce greeted with a slight bow.
"Good morning."
Only one of the three men returned the greeting. The remaining two merely regarded him in silence, their measured gazes lingering over him.
Bryce fought the urge to explain that his appearance was the result of circumstances beyond his control, deciding it would only make him sound as though he were making excuses.
"Have a seat, Mr. Jones," the same interviewer said.
"Thank you."
Bryce lowered himself into the chair opposite them.
"Did you bring your certificates and any supporting documents?"
"No," Bryce admitted, "I was away from home when I received the invitation. By the time I realized I needed them, returning to collect them would’ve made me late for the interview. If you could give me a little more time, I’ll bring everything."
A faint smile appeared on the interviewer’s face, easing a fraction of the tension constricting Bryce’s chest.
"Very well," the man said. "If today’s interview goes in your favor, bring them tomorrow instead."
He slid a tablet across the table.
"For now, you have ten minutes. Design a wristwatch unlike anything currently on the market. Don’t imitate existing designs. Rely entirely on your own creativity."
Bryce accepted the tablet, his palms growing damp around its edges. A thin sheen of perspiration gathered beneath his hoodie.
It’s only a design, he reminded himself, repeating the thought like a silent mantra as he steadied his breathing.