A faint sunbeam in Singapore entered through the windows in a dim way.
Chen Jian sat stiffly in the center of the Info-communications Media Development Authority (IMDA)'s presentation hall while her blazer felt stiff from the office air conditioning.
"…This concludes our test results for future interface interaction logic. The visual treatment utilizes—"
"Stop." A cold voice interrupted her from the other end of the table.
She paused, instinctively silencing herself. She no longer felt upset about interruptions because she had learned to handle them unconsciously. She avoided eye contact by looking down while she turned the page to try and restore her normal breathing pattern.
The team members at the table checked their phones while ignoring her projection slides with uninterested faces. A team member who collaborated with her was half-smiling in his notebook while treating her presentation as background noise.
"I've told you, Chen Jian. Your animation syntax works in indie shorts, but it does not work in service-based products. Where's the logic? The target demographic?"
The supervisor kept his gaze away from her as he drummed his fingers on the table. "This kind of expression is just a waste of development resources."
Chen Jian didn't speak. She simply nodded.
She had submitted her design to the supervisor for the fourth time but it now looked nothing like her original vision. Her designs experienced continuous erosion through comments that demanded rationality and emotional removal and market incomprehensibility and superfluous expression reduction.
What was left was a stitched-together compromise, barely hers anymore.
Her name was still buried at the bottom of the credits.
After the presentation she drifted back to her workspace with the same lifelessness as a sheet of paper.
Her PowerPoint was still open.
The coworker moved over to her desk to browse through the slides while making public comments to her face:
"This layout kinda reminds me of something my uni friend did. No impression at all."
"And this animation—it's way too self-indulgent, don't you think?"
"Do you actually think this would run on mobile?"
She said nothing. Just closed the presentation, unplugged her USB drive, and sat down.
She opened her email and began drafting a new message.
Subject: Resignation Letter.
She typed:
"Thank you for the opportunity. I've decided to resign."
She fixed her gaze on the sentence as her mouse hovered near the send button for an extended period.
Her thoughts were a jumble, as if voices from her past were all tugging at her at once:
"Your design's too emotional. This isn't filmmaking."
"Others get promoted because they cooperate—you're just not suitable."
"You're too sensitive. This isn't a place for personal feelings."
She didn't revise the message.
She pressed send without any expression or feeling of relief.
She only felt something cold collapse behind her ribs.
She rose from her seat while holding the USB device and proceeded to HR.
The woman behind the glass checked her out briefly as if she were looking at an ID number which would be deactivated soon.
"Thirty-day notice, right?"
"I won't be staying. Chen Jian stated they would process the exit formalities.
"They need a handover document to finalize your pending assignments. The offboarding meeting will require your attendance even though you're leaving.
"Fine."
She handed over the letter, turned, and walked away.
The sunlight illuminated her face after she left the gray glass smart building in a wave of intense white light.
She didn't shield her eyes.
The burning felt more real than the recycled cold of the office air.
⸻
When she returned home in the evening the urban heat embraced her body with an additional layer.
She kicked off her shoes and turned on the fan.
The room hadn't changed.
All her design materials including canvas boards, sketchbooks, hard drives and design manuals remained untouched in their usual positions as if they belonged to someone else.
She retrieved the half-smoked pack of cigarettes from the drawer and placed herself by the balcony to smoke. The breeze scattered ash onto her slippers.
"So where the hell do I go from here?"
She muttered the question to no one in particular.
She flipped open her laptop.
The startup sound rang too loud in the silence.
She hadn't intended to look for any particular subject during the search.
She needed direction yet she remained uncertain about the nature of the guidance she sought.
She rejected going back to design work while also rejecting any further instructions that called her too personal.
She didn't want to talk to people.
Didn't want to collaborate.
She refused all forms of assessment.
She entered the career forum using the search function to find the following terms:
"Jobs without social interaction"
"Work for misanthropes"
"Mortuary reconstruction technician – Singapore/Malaysia"
She had truly considered it.
She attended university to study illustration before mastering 3D modeling for digital characters during her time there.
She mastered the techniques needed to create skin textures and rebuild eye sockets while mapping facial structures.
The ability to restore the dead through anatomical sensitivity showed similar characteristics to her work.
She thought to herself: The task of talking to corpses might be less difficult than the challenge of engaging with people who are alive.
The search results revealed minimal job listings that needed medical approval and extensive professional experience.
She stared at the screen.
The monitor's glow flickered across her face, pale and flickering.
She opened a draft email from her saved folder which she had not visited before.
The subject line was unfinished.
The body read:
"I want to shoot real things. People, wounds, fire, escape."
She hesitated a moment.
Renamed the file.
Saved it again.
After that she clicked into a recruitment posting titled:
"Conflict Media Project – Southeast Asia Recruitment."
She took another drag from her cigarette while displaying a twisted grin to the world.
"Fuck it. Go crazy properly."
She compiled her portfolio, attached her resume.
She entered a single sentence into the message box of her application.
"I want to go somewhere and completely lose it."
She clicked send.
She closed her laptop after sending the email before lying down on her bed to observe the ceiling above her.
She eliminated the company group chat to discover her own breathing patterns which replaced the rhythm of deadlines with the sound of being alive.