MEIN: ANTRAPADA

Collaborative project

The orientation session lasted longer than what was stated on the schedule. Two hours and twenty minutes over, if I was keeping track—and of course, I was counting it precisely, as per my usual habit. The division introductions, the building tour, the explanation of the internal system that honestly could have been summarized in a much shorter time—since the presentation contained more than six slides about the vision and mission that were already clearly printed on the brochures we received at the front desk—instead took almost half an hour longer than the schedule we were given.

Olethea nudged me at the eighty-minute mark. I countered it with a thin smile, meaning I understood, but there was nothing we could do about it.

Yet when the elevator finally brought us to the thirteenth floor, I forgot to complain. I remembered the man. The one who looked so calm.

The doors slid open—and my eyes instantly found a single spot among all the people who were already there.

Rui.

He was standing near a long table in the corner of the room, reading something in his hand in a very specific way—the same way he did in the lobby earlier, like someone who read not for information, but for confirmation. He hadn't looked up yet. Or perhaps he already knew we had arrived and chose not to look up. And didn't care.

Three seconds. I counted unintentionally.

Then I forced my eyes to sweep across the entire room as I should have done from the start—the thirteenth floor was more open than I had imagined, with glass on three sides, filtering in the morning sunlight that was beginning to grow intense. The desks were arranged with measured distances. Nothing felt random.

Too precise, I thought. Just like the lobby. Just like the man.

We were introduced one by one, then began to disperse to our respective positions. And he remained quiet, focused on the document in his hand, looking entirely uninterested and indifferent.

I stood in silence, staring at the list of names on the project board that had just been posted on the wall—searching for my name, finding Olethea right next to it, and then—

Project VELA. Core Team.

Antonella Beatriz Sienne. Junior PM.

Olethea Varne. Junior PM.

Rui Vicente Aldric. Senior Business Analyst.

There were three more names below it that I didn't get to read because my eyes lingered on that third name for too long. Surprised.

"Nella." Olethea whispered beside me, her tone highly specific—a tone that meant she was seeing the exact same thing and wanted to know what I was thinking.

"It's just a coincidence, don't worry," I replied softly.

Olethea didn't answer. But I could feel there was something she was holding back from saying.

The first meeting started at eleven fifteen, exactly one hour and forty-five minutes before lunch break began. Upon entering the meeting room, I felt a slight chill—not from the AC. It felt more like someone was watching me intensely.

And he sat up straight at the end of the table, looking calm.

As it turned out, Rui was the one leading—not because anyone had asked him to, but more because the room automatically shifted its attention toward him the moment he stood up from his chair. There was something in the way he took his position at the front of the room that made everyone choose to fall silent and listen before he even opened his mouth. He seemed feared, even though their ranks were equal.

"Project VELA begins today," his voice was calm, with no raised tone to fill the room—the room adjusted itself to him.

"A three-month timeline. The deadline will not shift. Let's ensure no one gets left behind along the way."

Then he explained.

Everything—the project structure, task delegation, bi-weekly milestones, issue escalation protocols, report formats, even the minute details on how to document risks that were usually only discussed in the second or third meeting.

Thorough. Structured. No flaws. There was no information hanging in the air waiting for follow-up questions because everything had been answered before the question could even form.

I took notes. More than I usually did during college lectures or at my previous workplace.

Not because the material was difficult—but because there was something in the way he delivered it that made my hand move on its own, as if I would lose something vital if I didn't write it down.

This is the way of someone who has thought through this project long before the first project meeting was planned, I thought. Even long before the team was even formed.

At one point, he stopped explaining and began to pace around the room.

Not restless—more like someone who thought better while moving. He circled the table slowly, his hand occasionally pointing at the presentation screen in front without needing to look at it, his eyes sweeping across the faces in the room one by one. Analyzing. Noting every detailed expression.

And it lingered on my face longer than it should have.

One extra second. Maybe two. Enough to make me notice it, but not long enough to give me a concrete reason to feel uncomfortable. And slightly bothered.

And without realizing it, I noted down something that didn't need to be recorded.

He continued his round. Until he was behind me—I couldn't see him, but I knew from the way his voice shifted its angle and the sound of his breath, which was incredibly quiet, unlike someone who had been speaking a lot while walking around—and his hand touched my shoulder.

Light. Not inappropriate. Only for a brief moment, yet it wasn't released immediately. Five seconds, perhaps more, while he pointed at something on the screen ahead and continued his explanation as if nothing had happened.

I didn't move. Suddenly, I held my breath for no reason.

To my left, I caught a small movement—Olethea straightening her back slightly, her gaze no longer on the screen. She was paying attention. She said nothing. But she was watching in a way that was different from before, more intense, with many questions brewing inside her head.

The discussion session turned out to be livelier than I had anticipated for a first meeting.

I raised a question about the cross-divisional coordination protocol—and Rui answered with an approach that was exactly what was in my head, though I hadn't had the chance to elaborate on it yet. I added a small modification. He considered it for three seconds, then nodded.

"More efficient." That was all. But it was enough to leave me satisfied and pleased.

Then there was the matter of the weekly report format, which I thought was too rigid for a project with dynamic variables like this—I voiced it carefully, not entirely sure how a Senior Analyst would respond to criticism from a Junior PM who had just started today. But Rui only looked at me for a moment, calm, not looking the least bit offended.

"A reasonable suggestion. We will adjust it."

Simple. No ego to protect, no hierarchy to enforce. No drawn-out arguments.

We worked remarkably well together, and we were a good match for collaboration—that was a conclusion difficult to avoid, even on the first day. There was something in the way his mindset complemented mine, like two systems designed to run in parallel without conflict. As if it had been engineered. Too perfect, perhaps.

But I didn't know any better way to label it other than luck, or just another coincidence. And on the first day in a new place, with a massive project and a competent colleague—it didn't feel like the right time to nitpick over mere luck and a coincidence.

"Are you okay?" Olethea whispered as the meeting entered its final stage.

"Fine. Why?"

She didn't answer right away. Her eyes darted briefly toward Rui, who was talking to another team member at the end of the table, then returned to me.

"Nothing." Her tone was light. But Olethea Varne was never truly easy to read when there was something on her mind. And it seemed to bother her slightly.

I chose not to dwell on it too much.

The meeting ended at twelve fifty-two. I packed up my notes, slipped my laptop into my bag, and stood up.

And only then did I realize that during those one hour and forty minutes, I hadn't been bored even once.

That was unusual.

And what bothered me even more—as I finally stood up and walked out, I noticed Olethea said nothing. Didn't ask. Didn't comment. She only looked at me with an expression I couldn't read. Olethea Varne always had an opinion on everything. Her silence was far louder than any words.