Chapter 3

I had no idea how long I slept, but a gnawing hunger eventually woke me.

My throat felt like sandpaper, and my stomach was cramping.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand and turned it on.

Just as predicted, the second the screen booted up, notifications erupted like fireworks.

The phone vibrated violently against my palm, buzzing nonstop for nearly a full minute.

999 missed calls.

The unread badges on SnapChat and text messages couldn't even display numbers anymore, reduced to a single, chaotic "...".

I tapped into the call log. The most recent missed call had arrived ten minutes ago from an unknown number.

Before that, Mr. Lewis’s personal cell number showed up over a hundred times.

Interspersed among them were calls from the office landline, HR, and even a few colleagues whose numbers I had never bothered to save.

The text thread was a goldmine, a relentless stream of messages fired off over the past three days:

"Chris, pick up the phone! It's an emergency!" — Mr. Lewis.

"Hey Chris, there might have been a misunderstanding earlier. Call me back ASAP." — Mr. Lewis.

"Chris, it's Mia from HR. Mr. Lewis needs you to come to the office immediately to discuss something critical." — Mia.

"Chris! I'm warning you, don't make this difficult! Do you have any idea what kind of legal liability you're taking on right now?!" — Mr. Lewis.

"Chris, please, just answer! Everything is blowing up at the firm!" — Unknown number.

The messages tracked Mr. Lewis’s entire psychological arc: from barking orders to coaxing, from issuing threats to utter desperation.

I could vividly picture him pacing his office, tearing his hair out.

I chuckled and flipped the phone to silent.

Instead of deleting them, I created a new folder on my phone called "Hall of Fame" and moved every single screenshot into it.

My stomach rumbled loudly again. I got up, went to the kitchenette, and put a pot of water on the stove.

Scrounging through the fridge, I found two eggs and a bundle of dry noodles, throwing together a quick, comforting bowl of broth noodles.

While eating, I propped up my tablet and skimmed local business news.

On the front page of the regional finance section, a bold headline jumped out:

*Prominent Design Firm DeepBlue Hits Snag: Client Challenges Winning Bid, $30 Million Deal on the Brink*

I tapped the article and read through it slowly.

Sure enough, during the final pre-construction review, the client's external engineering consultants flagged multiple irregular design quirks in the commercial complex schematics.

The report quoted an anonymous consultant:

"These structural quirks are remarkably subtle, but they will create significant operational bottlenecks down the road. We are investigating whether the design firm lacks basic competency or deliberately left these flaws in the plans."

Mr. Lewis’s company was actively preparing for an IPO, and this thirty-million-dollar deal was their flagship achievement of the fiscal year.

If the deal fell through, they wouldn't just lose the commission—the firm's professional reputation would be shredded.

More importantly, it would completely derail their public listing.

I took a bite of noodles. Simple, but satisfying.

Scrolling further down, I saw Mr. Lewis’s official statement:

"This is an absolute smear campaign! Our design fully complies with regulatory standards. Certain competitors are maliciously trying to tarnish our name!"

Attached was a press photo of Mr. Lewis swarmed by reporters outside the office building, his face pasty and dripping with cold sweat.

Poetic justice.

I closed the browser, opened a job hunting app, and started browsing architecture openings.

Even if the timing wasn't quite ripe, scoping out the market never hurt.

My screen lit up again with another incoming unknown number.

I swiped it away, tipped the bowl back, and drank the last drop of warm broth, feeling the heat settle into my stomach.

Absolute bliss.