CHAPTER 9: Replies, Approaches, and the Invitation to (Social) Hell

The alarm clock blared like a submarine alarm in dry dock, echoing the panic siren that had been ringing incessantly in my head since yesterday. I groaned, burying my face in the pillow that had absorbed my anxiety sweat and, probably, a few tears of silent frustration. I survived the previous day at the Studio. But the victory tasted like ashes and paranoia.

My mind was a broken pinball machine. The image of the strange code on the screen, with lines that looked wrong, almost alive (and those bizarre annotations that could only spell trouble: //Módulo_Sombra_v3_TEMP?, maybe a hidden temporary module, and FuncaoLegado::ProcessoFantasma?, an old function running something in the background?) flickered intermittently, a vivid and disturbing reminder. Espionage.

The word reverberated, absurd and terrifying. Alternating with this technological paranoia came the echo of Rodrigo's and Carlos's praise – "A real find," "absurd logic" – which sounded more like a veiled threat of future social interactions than actual recognition.

And, of course, the omnipresent presence of Steven, the Neighbor-Enigma, whose smiley face on the communicator seemed to contain universal secrets that I was incapable of deciphering.

Getting out of bed was an act of arduous negotiation with my own body, which stubbornly refused to obey. The morning ritual was a blur of automatic movements: the reserve gray hoodie (my shield against the world), jeans (the uncomfortable armor), a futile attempt to look less "zombie apocalypse survivor" in the mirror. Coffee went down like sand.

The commute to work was an expedition into enemy territory. Every person on the street was a potential double agent. Every look in my direction was confirmation that they knew. Did they know about the code? Did they know I had seen it? Did they know I could barely form a coherent sentence under pressure? Paranoia blossomed, lush and poisonous.

Arriving at the Studio office, with its graffiti-covered walls and brightly colored beanbags acting like traps, brought no relief. The "cool" environment felt like an elaborate performance. I crossed the open space with the grim determination of a mouse trying to cross a highway. My eyes scanned the room.

There was the Marketing fishbowl, with Dante and his troupe already in "corporate conquerors" mode. There was the desk of the metal-band-shirt programmer, already immersed in his code universe (the spy code?). My heart sped up. I looked away.

Finally, the cubicle. My precarious sanctuary. I collapsed into the chair, breathless, as if I'd run an Olympic anxiety marathon. I needed to concentrate. Ignore everything. Be the invisible assistant. Organize, catalogue, disappear. Simple.

Ping.

The internal communicator. I froze. My hands went cold and sweaty.

I opened the message with the caution of someone clicking a suspicious link promising free kittens. It was from him. Steven.

Steven: "Morning, Bia. Just wanted to let you know, Rodrigo mentioned the organization of that reference folder to me. It's excellent, Bia, the tag system you used to organize everything really helped a lot with creating our game environments too. Good work. :)"

A compliment. Direct. With a smiley. I read and reread the message about ten times. What the hell did that mean? Was it genuine? Or a bait? A way to make me lower my guard, to probe what I knew about the code? The paranoia screamed: TRAP! FLEE! DON'T REPLY WITH MORE THAN THREE LETTERS!

My instinct was to close the window and pretend amnesia. But the damned invisible corporate etiquette forced me into some kind of acknowledgement. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, fighting an epic battle against my own inadequacy. I typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Me: "Ok."

Perfect. Succinct. Impenetrable. Almost robotic. I clicked send with lightning speed, before doubt consumed me. Response sent. Interaction contained. I went back to staring at my screen, trying to focus on stone textures, but his smiley seemed to float in my peripheral vision, mocking and indecipherable.

On the other side of the low partitions, in the environment art area, Steven stared at Bia's short, dry reply: "Ok." He sighed, a mix of resignation and a familiar twinge of… confirmation of distance. Her image at the water cooler, fumbling with the filter, her clear eyes wide… It was so… Bia. The same Bia he observed from afar at Santa Ana, years ago. The dark-haired girl, immersed in her drawings, an invisible fortress around her.

A quick flashback: him, a skinny, insecure teenager, seeing her in the library, fascinated by her intensity, by the quiet beauty that took his breath away. The stupid Valentine's Day letter, his heart pounding, the anxious and terrified wait near the magnolia tree. She never showed up. The rejection (or what he felt as rejection) hurt, it was a trigger for change – the gym, the armor of muscles, the hard-won confidence. But she… she remained an enigma. Did she read the letter? Was it shyness? He never knew.

And now, here she was. Colleague. Neighbor. Still with that barrier, but her work… brilliant. The same intelligence he admired. The old admiration mixed with renewed curiosity and an attraction he thought he'd overcome after Marina. He wanted to know her, understand what was behind those eyes.

But how? The "Ok." reply was an iron gate slamming shut. Patience. He would need a lot of patience. But something in him, the memory of the girl in the library, the intriguing combination of vulnerability and brilliance, wasn't ready to give up.

Steven shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the game environment design, but Bia's image, the complicated puzzle, persisted.

I barely had time to mentally catalogue the brief exchange with Steven in the folder "Social Enigmas to Decipher (Low Priority)" when a different presence altered the atmosphere around my cubicle.

It wasn't a shadow blocking the light, but a subtle shift in the space's dynamic, accompanied by a discreet, expensive woody perfume that arrived before the person.

I looked up, my danger instinct beeping loudly. Dante. Standing at a polite distance, but with a posture that radiated confidence. His smile was white and straight, looked genuine, which, somehow, made it more suspicious.

Dante, internally: Okay, approach level two. Rodrigo said she's brilliant but skittish. Need subtlety. The bet with Lucas is worth a nice dinner if I can get her out for happy hour.

"Excuse me... Bia, right?" His voice was pleasant, well-modulated. "I'm Dante, I work over in Marketing." He gestured casually towards the glassed-in area. "Noticed you started recently, just wanted to officially welcome you. Hope you're feeling at home."

Bia, internally: At home? I feel like an infiltrator in hostile territory. Is that smile rehearsed? Obviously. Red alert flashing. Neutral response. Functional. Don't give him ammo.

"Hi, Dante. Thanks." I managed to keep my voice relatively steady, though my shoulders were tense as violin strings.

"I heard great things about your work with those references for the new project," he continued, leaning in slightly, not invasively, but to create a sense of confidentiality.

"Rodrigo was praising your organizational logic. Said it was 'a find.' It's great having people with that kind of clarity on the team." The compliment was specific, which made it harder to dismiss as mere flattery.

His eyes, a warm brown, quickly assessed me, but without the aggression I expected. It was a polished assessment, almost professional, but still, an assessment.

Bia, internally: Specific compliment. Approach tactic. He's validating my work to lower my guard. Doesn't work. Or does it? Damn, I'm confused. Stick to the script.

"Oh... good that it helped," I murmured, averting my gaze to a strategic dent in the corner of my monitor.

Dante noticed the evasion, but didn't show irritation. He smiled understandingly. "I imagine the start is always a whirlwind, lots to absorb. The Art people sometimes get so focused they seem like they're in another dimension, right?" He chuckled softly, a pleasant sound that probably worked on most people.

"Look, I don't want to interrupt your concentration, but the Marketing guys and some other departments usually slip out for a decent coffee at the bakery around the corner, about three, just to break the rhythm. If you ever want a break and meet other faces outside the 'intense work mode' context, feel free to join. No pressure, of course." The offer was made lightly, the tone was one of casual camaraderie.

Bia, internally: 'No pressure'. The classic phrase that means 'implicit pressure'. Coffee = prolonged social interaction. Meeting other faces = exposure. Bet. It's the damn bet. I need an elegant exit. Polite but firm refusal. Postpone, don't confront.

I forced a smile that looked more like a facial spasm. "That's very kind of you, Dante, really. I appreciate the invitation." I paused, pretending to organize some non-existent papers on the desk.

"Right now, I'm really focused on trying to understand how the images and materials for the game objects are made and organizing my workflow here, you know... intense adaptation phase." I looked at him briefly, trying to seem busy but polite. "But I really appreciate the offer. Maybe another time, when things settle down a bit."

Dante, internally: Interesting. Wasn't a direct 'no'. Used the work excuse, postponed. Polite, controlled. More subtle than I expected. She's not just shy, she has a well-built defense. This makes the bet more fun. Okay, strategic retreat for today.

He nodded, the smile still in place, perhaps a little more amused now. "For sure, Bia. I understand perfectly. Adaptation is the priority." He didn't insist, which, paradoxically, made me more tense. The lack of insistence seemed calculated.

"Well, the offer still stands. Anything, or if you need a 'non-artist' perspective on something," he winked slightly, a quick, charming gesture, "you know where to find me." He straightened up. "Good work with the textures."

With a final casual nod, he walked away, moving with the same quiet confidence with which he arrived.

Bia, internally: He winked. Charm cliché level 5. Did I manage to get rid of him? Temporarily. I hated every second of it. I hated having to think about 'tactics'. I hated how... effective he seemed. Was that response good? Or did it just show that I'm a target who needs a different approach? The word 'bet' echoed in my head, now with a soft, manipulative musical background.

I took a deep breath, feeling my heart still racing. The interaction had been brief, but it drained my social battery for the day. Dante's calculated attention was, in a different way, as disturbing as Steven's enigmatic attention. One was an indecipherable puzzle, the other, a corporate seduction manual that I suspected had hidden chapters on manipulation and stupid bets.

The usual paranoia gained a new target: Dante and his Marketing troupe. Every laugh coming from that glass fishbowl now sounded like directed mockery.

I tried to focus on work, on the stone textures, but it was difficult. My mind alternated between the spy code, Steven's smiley, and Dante's calculated smile. It was a Bermuda Triangle of social anxiety and digital paranoia.

It was then that another ping echoed through the office. Not on my communicator. A general email. Subject: "SAVE THE DATE: Studio. Happy Hour this Friday!"

I opened the email with a bad feeling. Animated text, beer and pretzel emojis, and the fatal information: company gathering at a noisy, crowded bar near the office. Attendance "highly encouraged to strengthen our bonds and celebrate our achievements." Translation: go or be eternally judged as the company's anti-social hermit.

My stomach dropped. A bar. With everyone. With Dante. With Steven. With the boss who might think I was a genius or a fraud. With colleagues who might be laughing at my photo in the family group chat (did Leo send it to anyone at work?! Oh, God!).

It was my worst nightmare given a date and time. The Social Apocalypse was scheduled. Friday. And I had nowhere to run.