CHAPTER 3

Dylan’s POV

“I don’t care what he thinks.”

The words leave my mouth the second I wake up.

The apartment is quiet around me, and the early sunlight barely pushes through the curtains while my phone lies beside my pillow. I stare at the dark screen for a long moment anyway.

K’s comment from last night still sits in my head.

Very annoying.

I throw the blanket aside and sit up roughly. It feels like I never slept because my shoulders are already tense. Somewhere outside, traffic moves through the city below my apartment windows while my coffee machine hums quietly from the kitchen.

I stand up and get ready for work more quickly than usual, like I'm after something I can't see. My mind keeps going back and forth between two things I don't want to think about.

One is the office, the other is that comment from K. I don’t like the fact that both are sitting in the same space in my head.

“Not today,” I say to myself as I grab my bag after dressing and leave home.

I really shouldn't be thinking about that insult anymore.

But I am. And I'm already in a bad mood when I leave for work.

When I get there, the office looks busier than usual. Phones keep ringing, and people move quickly from desk to desk with laptops and folders in their hands.

Ethan is at his desk, eating something and scrolling through his phone. The second he looks up and sees me, his eyebrows lift.

“You look worse than yesterday,” he remarks.

“Good morning to you too,” I reply, dropping into my chair.

I immediately open my laptop, already starting work for the day. Emails flood the screen faster than I can process them.

Ethan looks at me through the edge of his coffee cup.

“I’m serious about you looking worse,” he adds, sitting up straighter. “Did you even sleep?”

“Enough of your questions Ethan, my head is banging right now,” I caution.

I rub a hand on my forehead. A headache has been sitting behind my eyes since morning.

“Hmmm, with the way you are avoiding my questions, that shows you didn't get enough sleep as I thought,” he pushes further.

“Can you not interrogate me today?” I shout gently at him.

Ethan slowly lowers his coffee.

The teasing disappears from his face almost immediately.

“Okay, I will drop it,” he says carefully.

That should end the conversation. Instead, he look across the office floor. Toward Fredrick’s desk. His face shows that he understands.

“Oh,” he mutters.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to.

Unfortunately, Ethan knows me too well sometimes.

Before he can continue, our boss walks out of his office already looking stressed.

“Everyone,” he says. “We have a meeting. Now.”

A wave of groans spreads through the office.

Then I slowly shut down my laptop and stand up. Something about today already feels wrong.

Inside the meeting room, everyone settles down faster than usual. Nobody wastes time to talk or ask each other questions. The pressure hanging over the office is obvious now, sitting heavy under every movement and quiet conversation.

Fredrick is already there this time, sitting up straight with his tablet in front of him, like that is his office. When I walk in, he looks at me once and then back at his screen.

Truth to be told, that little look annoys me more than it should.

I take my usual seat while our boss remains standing.

“Quick update,” our boss begin, breaking the unseen tension. “The deadline for the project has been moved forward.”

Almost all of us react immediately.

“What?”

“That’s too soon.”

"There isn't even much time left.”

A lot of questions flow out of everywhere.

Voices overlap across the table while chairs shift loudly on the floor. Someone near the back curses quietly under their breath.

My stomach tightens. I lean forward slightly. “How much time do we have?”

“Three days,” he replies.

The room goes silent.

Three days.

Even Ethan stops moving beside me.

Our boss rubs his tired face. "I understand how tight it is. But we don’t have a choice.”

Pressure immediately settles in the room and everyone feels it.

“That’s not possible,” someone finally remarks.

“It is if we work together,” the boss replies. “Dylan. Fredrick. You’re leading this.”

I breathed out through my nose. Of course we are the qualified ones.

“Let’s begin,” the boss says.

We start reviewing the draft again, but this time everything is faster. People give their opinion quickly, decisions are made faster. There’s no space to slow down, no space to think twice.

Fredrick stands near the screen reviewing timelines while the rest of us adjust figures and schedules.

“We have to shorten the second phase,” he says calmly.

“No,” I tackle immediately. “That will break the flow.”

The answer leaves my mouth before I fully think about it.

Several people look toward us immediately. Fredrick studies the screen for a second before looking back toward me.

“Then tell us your own suggestion.”

Something in his tone immediately gets under my skin.

I sit forward slowly and pull the document toward me.

“Fine.”

I start talking quickly and clearly. I explain every step, every reason to work according to the structure without pausing or hesitating.

I can see people listening. Really listening to my explanation.

Fredrick also doesn’t interrupt. He just watches me and sometimes makes gestures like he wants to interrupt but he doesn't say anything.

Ethan looks at me, like he noticed it too. But I ignore him and focus on what I'm doing.

Finally, I finish explaining and lean back “There,” I say. “Is that clear enough?”

Fredrick nods slowly. “It’s convincing,” he commends.

The tension in my shoulders eases slightly before he continues.

Of course. That is expected of him.

He stands up and walks to the screen. “If we reduce this gap,” he says, pointing. “And merge these two steps together and it will shorten this response window.”

By the time he finishes, the structure looks more clean. Simpler and stronger.

“That works better.”

“Yeah, that looks clearer.”

“Good adjustment.”

Everyone comments. My anger slowly creeps back into my chest as I stare at the screen.

That feeling again. Like I start something and somehow he finishes it better.

Like the room slowly shifts toward him every single time.

"Any problems with that?" our boss asks.

I lean back in my chair. My throat feels tight all of a sudden.

"No," I say in a low voice. "It looks like he fixed everything already."

Fredrick turns toward me fully now.

“You explained it well by the way,” he says evenly.

I laugh once under my breath. “Sure.”

The whole room becomes silent. Everyone exchanges looks among themselves.

Our boss clears his throat, breaking the awkward silence. “We’ll go with this version. No more deliberation on this project. And that's the end of the meeting for today, you are all dismissed.”

As soon as the meetimg is over, people begin to move one after the other without saying anything. Chairs scrape loudly on the floor as everyone rushes back to work.

I stay seated longer than necessary, waiting for them to leave before moving.

Ethan nudges my arm lightly. “ Hey, you did good.”

“It doesn't matter,” I reply.

“It does,” he insists. “You saw his face. Didn't you?”

I finally turn to look at him and frown. “What about it?”

Ethan lowers his voice slightly. “He stopped to listen to you. That's strange.”

My chest tightens strangely at that. Because I noticed it too. And for some reason, that bothers me even more.

The rest of the day turns brutal after that.

Work piles up faster as we clear them and emails arrive nonstop. Every few minutes another revision appears on my screen from Fredrick.

Every single one arrives exactly on time. I start responding immediately too. Not because I have to.

Because I refuse to fall behind him. To me it’s not teamwork. It’s a silent fight between us.

I become tired as some point, but I don't stop. I don’t want to stop and let Fredrick take all the credit for himself.

By evening, everyone in the office is tired. There are a lot of coffee cups on desks while tension hangs heavily under everyone’s silence. Most people stop talking entirely and just work.

But Fredrick still looks composed. That alone feels unfair.

At one point he walks past my desk and put down a revised schedule beside my keyboard.

“Review section four again,” he says. Then he leaves before I can answer.

I stare at the document for some seconds. The revisions are good. Why did he want me to review it again?

By the time I finally get home, my shoulders ache from sitting tense all day.

The apartment is silent as I walk in.

Good.

I drop my bag near the couch and immediately head toward my desk. My laptop screen glows softly once I open it, familiar and comforting in a way nothing else felt today.

I log into my author's page without wasting time. Immediately, some of the pressure in my chest eases.

The comment under the last night's chapter is still unanswered by me.

For a second, I think maybe they have given up, then—

A notification pops up.

It is from the same reader K.

I click on it and it reads:

“You didn’t answer my question.”

I exhale slowly through my nose. Not again. Who is this person? And why do they keep pushing me to the edge?

My fingers hover above the keyboard before finally typing back.

“Why are you questioning my decision? He deserves it.”

The reply doesn’t come immediately this time. I lean back slightly in my chair while waiting.

Outside, rain taps softly on my apartment windows. The city lights blur faintly on the glass while silence fills the room more around me.

Then the response come:

“No. I don't think he does.”

My jaw tightens. “He is fictional. Are you saying you know my character more than I do?”

“No but I can relate with him more than you do. Is that not what you writers aim for? For readers to be able to relate with the character.”

Something uncomfortable shifts in my chest.

I reread the reply twice.

The cursor blinks steadily at the bottom of the chat while my thoughts slowly drift somewhere I don’t want them to.

I took a deep breath. Why does this feel familiar?

Why does this sound like—

No, it can be. I shake my head.

What the hell am I thinking?

I ignore the reply for a while because I don’t have a clean answer and I don’t like where this is going.

“You’re reading too deeply into it. Why do you care?” I finally type.

There was a pause. Longer this time.

Then the reply comes:

“You’re writing emotionally now. This story has stopped being just a story a while ago, didn’t it?