Amelia walked home as she always did, her headphones in, music paused.
A woman leaned out of a second-floor window, calling a toddler inside with a voice that made love sound like a scolding. Amelia looked away, keeping her pace steady.
She felt her phone buzz in her pocket.
It was Chase: Still on for Wednesday? I promise terrible jokes and honest answers.
A second later, another followed: Summers Brew? Noon-ish?
She stopped at the curb, watching a yellow cab splash through a puddle. She typed back a quick confirmation, adding a corny pun before she could stop herself. He answered with a thumbs-up emoji. She smiled.
She pocketed the phone and continued home, counting her steps.
Her studio apartment was a quiet sanctuary.
A small fish tank hummed in the corner, and three potted plants sat on the windowsill, though only two were still valiantly clinging to life. She looked around the room. Neat, contained, manageable.
Her gaze drifted to the corkboard by the door.
An unopened letter from her mother hung there, pinned by a single translucent thumb-tack. She flicked the corner of the envelope. Your life is small, it would say. It was her mother’s favorite opinion, delivered a dozen different ways. As if smallness was a bug rather than a feature.
She dropped her keys in the bowl and exhaled. For the first time, Wednesday was more than just ‘hump-day.’
Across town, in the velvet-draped war room, Vincenzo sat alone under the glow of multiple monitors. The stream was private: EL VIENTO INTERNAL — EXECUTIVE BOARD ACCESS ONLY.
One by one, seven names chimed in. Alfonso. Eliza. Lucius. Shen. And at the very top, glowing brighter than the rest:
Calder Viento — ONLINE.
Vincenzo’s jaw tightened. Chase’s “spark”—the boy from the Harrison Home—had become Ernesto’s favorite proxy. Something like a smile touched his face.
He settled into the velvet chair.
“Good evening,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, tender register. “Thank you for joining. Tonight is simple. Influence. And how we optimize it.”
Vincenzo tapped the key. The image of Chase and Amelia filled the screens.
It was a shot from the night before. Chase stood in the rain, his shoulders squared and his expression tired but resolute. Above him, Amelia was caught in the warm glow of her porch light, her bare feet pressing against the cold concrete.
“Look at him,” Vincenzo said, his voice softening. “My oldest friend. The man who thought paying for Xbox Live was a scam, but cheated at wrestling. I’ve always admired that beautiful contradiction.”
He swiped to the next image — the two of them laughing near the percolator, heads tilted toward each other.
“And her… she’s perfect. Gentle. Quirky. Readable. Together they’re the kind of beautiful people the public will trust. Relatable enough to follow, aspirational enough to envy.”
A low voice — Alfonso — cut in first. “More influencer theater? We need to get to work on upgrading those properties. Naomi Lake needs actual work, not another content campaign.”
Vincenzo smiled smoothly. “What better way to push Viento Construction into the public. Have them demonstrate your division’s craftsmanship.”
Alfonso grumbled.
A softer, amused tone from Eliza: “She is very… cute. Almost too wholesome. Especially your old high school buddy. He’s got that brooding hero thing down.”
Calder’s voice, quiet but clear: “She looks like this lady who talked to me at Squire Park… she was nice, I felt safe. That was before everything.”
A creepy mutter — Shen — followed: “I like her. She’d fit nicely in my—”
Groans and sharp static cut him off.
Vincenzo leaned forward. “See? Even when you hate each other, they still pull a reaction. Give me the green light on this pair, and I’ll wrap every one of your divisions in the kind of goodwill money can’t buy.”
The board votes lit up in sequence.
BOARD APPROVAL: 100%.
Vincenzo leaned forward, his eyes bright.
Chase and Amelia would become the faces of VIM and El Viento. And when they rose, Vincenzo would be the one guiding the climb.
He flicked his lighter once in the dark — click, flame, snap — and whispered to the empty room:
He wasn’t offering a gift.
He was assigning purpose.