Chapter Three: Glass Walls and First Steps
648 Words
Friday arrived with neither warmth nor warning.
The sky hung gray, and the air felt tight like it had been holding its breath.
Freen adjusted the blazer she’d borrowed from Nam, two sizes too wide, cuffs rolled back with quiet defiance as she stood outside Sapphire Systems. She stared up at the building like it owed her something. Like the steel and glass might blink first.
It didn’t.
Inside, the lobby was hush and chrome. White marble floors. Silver accents. A reception desk where the woman barely looked up before handing her a sticker labeled A3.
“You’re early,” the receptionist muttered, tapping keys like they bored her.
Freen nodded once and slid into a sleek gray chair. Her resume sat in her lap, folded once, then again. Around her, the other candidates buzzed with silent tension one girl in pearls tapped her screen like it was an extension of her bloodstream, another guy flipped through a pitch deck like he’d already been hired.
Freen sat straighter.
She had stories in magazines..
She had sketches sold to strangers who paid in kindness, and cash.
She had grit.
That had to count for something.
Three floors up, Becky stood by her glass-paneled window, tablet in hand, scrolling through her color-coded calendar.
Behind her, Heng placed a report on her table.
“The intern shortlist just came in,” he said. “HR narrowed it to five.”
Becky didn’t look up. “I’ll skim it later.”
“You want me to flag any standouts?”
“No. Let HR run their maze. I’ll meet whoever survives.”
Heng hesitated. “One of them has an unusual history. Strong academics. Nontraditional résumé. Name’s Freen Soracha.”
Becky’s thumb stopped mid-scroll.
“Soracha,” she repeated, quiet.
The name brushed something like a strand of thread pulled from the hem of a memory. She blinked once. Shook it off.
“Move the pitch call to four,” she said. “I don’t need distractions.”
Heng nodded. But he noticed her pause. And the way she didn’t scroll for a while after.
Back in the lobby, Freen’s name echoed through the speakers.
She stood, pressed the blazer smooth, and followed a hallway of glass and chrome into a conference room. A woman from HR sat across a long table, all professionalism and pristine posture.
“You’ve had quite a range,” she said, flipping through the file. “Digital systems. Freelance art. Writing. But no full-time corporate work?”
“I’ve worked for myself since I was sixteen,” Freen replied. “Paid for school. Paid for rent. Did what I had to.”
The woman made a note.
“And now you’re applying for a corporate internship?”
“I want structure,” Freen said, steady. “And I learn fast.”
The questions came fast crisis scenarios, scheduling pressure, hierarchy protocols. Freen answered calmly, spine straight, voice steady. She didn’t over-smile. Didn’t flinch. Just tried to be enough.
At the end, the HR rep gave a polite nod. “We’ll be in touch.”
Outside, the clouds had finally broken.
Freen stepped into light that didn’t quite feel real. She squinted into it, like it might vanish.
Her phone buzzed.
Nam.
Tell me everything. How did it go??
Freen stared at the screen for a second. Then typed back:
Cold building. Sharp questions. I didn’t bleed, so maybe I passed.
Nam replied instantly:
If you didn’t bleed, you probably broke their scale.
Freen smiled small, tired, real. But her thoughts circled one quiet question:
Had anyone in that building truly seen her?
Not her résumé.
Not her borrowed blazer.
Her.
Three floors up, Becky sat alone with her tablet still glowing.
She tapped it awake, pulled up the intern’s file again.
Freen Soracha.
The surname throbbed like a warning familiar.
Could be coincidence. Probably was.
- Writer
