Rainwater slid down the studio window like tears, blurring the neon glare of the city outside. Alex Carter stepped back from the half-finished mural, wiping charcoal-dusted hands on their overalls. The canvas screamed in reds and golds—a flock of hummingbirds mid-flight, wings sharp as shattered glass. Rebellion, they'd titled it. Rebellion never paid the rent.
The phone buzzed. Again.
"Alex. Answer your damn phone." Lena's voicemail growled through the speaker. "Thorn Industries called back. They want the mural. Yes, the Thorn Industries. Don't screw this up."
Alex stared at the hummingbirds. Corporate gigs were soul-sucking, but soul-sucking paid better than ramen and rejection letters. They dialed Lena back. "Tell them I'll do it. But only if they let me paint what I want."
Lena snorted. "Sweetheart, you're painting a wall for billionaires. They'll want a spreadsheet of your 'vision.'"
Thorn Industries Headquarters was a glass monolith, all sharp angles and cold light. Alex's boots squeaked against the marble lobby floor, their portfolio tucked under one arm. The receptionist eyed their paint-splattered jacket like it was radioactive.
"Mr. Thorn will see you now."
Alex froze. The CEO was reviewing a mural proposal? That wasn't in the email.
The elevator doors slid open to a penthouse office, all steel and silence. Behind a desk that looked like a spaceship control panel sat Elias Thorn. He didn't look up, his fingers flying across a tablet. Sharp jawline. Impeccable suit. A presence so cold it could frost glass.
"Your design." His voice was clipped. "Explain it."
Alex unrolled the sketch. "It's a triptych. First panel: a forest. Second: a circuit board devouring it. Third: the forest growing back through the tech. Life persists."
Elias finally glanced up. His eyes were winter-gray, unreadable. "We requested something minimalist. Geometric."
"You requested 'inspiration.' This is inspired." Alex tapped the third panel. "It's about balance. Humanity and progress aren't enemies."
A beat of silence. Elias leaned forward. "You're the one who's been sending those letters."
Alex's pulse spiked. Shit.
For months, they'd mailed anonymous critiques to Thorn Industries—rants about exploitative AI patents, soulless office design. Signed: A Disappointed Idealist.
"Your prose is dramatic," Elias said drily, sliding a letter across the desk. Alex's own words glared back: "Your empire is a gilded cage. Even the air here tastes like profit."
"You read them?" Alex said, defiant.
"I read everything." Elias stood, towering over the desk. "Your mural is approved. On one condition: you work on-site. We'll… collaborate."
"Why?"
"Because you're right." His voice softened, almost imperceptibly. "This place is a cage. Maybe you can fix that."
That night, Alex painted furiously, transforming the lobby's blank wall into a riot of color. Security guards lingered, swapping bets on how long the "angry hippie" would last. At 2 a.m., Alex spotted a shadow in the mezzanine above.
Elias.
He stood motionless, tie loosened, watching the mural take shape. When their eyes met, he vanished like a ghost.
Back at their studio, Alex found a note slipped under the door. No signature, just elegant cursive:
"The hummingbird does not apologize for its hunger. Nor should you."
They crumpled it, but couldn't bring themselves to toss it in the trash.
The next morning, Lena barged in, waving her phone. "You're trending! Thorn's board is losing it over your mural. They're calling it 'vandalism.'"
A video played: Elias at a press conference, flanked by outraged shareholders. A reporter shouted, "Will you fire the artist?"
Elias's gaze cut to the camera, steady as a blade. "Art isn't meant to be safe. Neither is progress."
Lena whistled. "Alex, honey, you've got a billionaire defending your honor. You gonna ride this train wreck?"
Alex stared at the mural photos blowing up online. The third panel—the forest reclaiming the tech—glowed under Thorn Industries' sterile lights.
"Yeah," they muttered. "All the way to hell."
That night, the studio doorbell rang. Elias stood in the rain, water dripping from his coat. No tie. No pretense.
"I need a favor," he said.
Alex crossed their arms. "What kind of favor?"
"Pretend to be in love with me."