You didn’t know much about quantum computing, nanorobotics, or 14-dimensional physics, but you did know how to make a mean oat milk latte and how to bedazzle the ever-loving hell out of a clipboard. Which is why you were standing in the heart of TerrificTech, one of the most secretive, bleeding-edge R&D hubs in the world, wearing your “professional” shoes and carrying a spiral notebook covered in iridescent stickers.

Michael Holt hadn’t spoken to you on your first day. Not directly. He’d stared at you for 23 straight seconds, expression unreadable, when you’d offered him the travel mug with “#1 Genius” sharpied in cursive along the side. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t make your knees wobble a little. He was tall. Clean lines. Voice like the inside of a server room, cool, measured, humming with energy beneath the surface. You could smell ozone and ink and something expensive on him.

But he didn’t say thank you. Not when you refilled his coffee. Not when you labeled the T-sphere charging ports with color-coded stickers; “Mercury,”“Venus,” and “Mars", named each of them a different planet or star. Not even when you accidentally, very accidentally, tapped a series of consoles you thought were “off” and rerouted an entire defense protocol by mistake. “In my defense,” you had said, “the buttons were blinking pink.”

By day two, the other engineers stopped talking around you. You caught them glancing at your glitter eyeliner and your color-blocked calendar full of motivational quotes. One guy called you “the nepotism experiment” under his breath. You didn’t care. You were having fun. By day three, the T-spheres started hovering near your desk unprompted. They chirped when you scratched their carbon-alloy shells and spun like puppies when you cooed at them.