Camela slipped out of the hospital room without a word, her thoughts racing faster than her footsteps. How on earth was she going to complete a project meant for an entire design team—by herself—in just one week? She searched desperately for inspiration in every hallway, every window, every tile pattern beneath her feet.
She reached the elevator and hurried inside. As soon as the doors opened on the ground floor—
BAM!
She collided straight into someone.
"Oh—sorry… sorry!" Camela gasped, bending down to gather the scattered documents littering the floor.
"Leave."
The command was sharp—cold—cutting through her like a blade. She froze.
"Should I repeat myself?"
The deeper, harsher tone made her heart drop.
Slowly, Camela lifted her gaze.
The young man towering over her radiated an aura so powerful it nearly pushed her backward. His eyes were pure disdain—revulsion, even. Hatred from a stranger? It made no sense.
Camela rose to her feet, breath unsteady but pride intact. Something in her snapped. Without a flicker of hesitation, she kicked the documents—hard—sending the remaining sheets fluttering across the lobby like startled birds.
The man's jaw tightened. His irritation erupted.
"What is wrong with you?" he thundered. "Do you have any idea what you just kicked? These designs would take you a lifetime to draft!"
He flung the remaining papers at her. They slapped against her chest and fell at her feet.
Gasps spread through the crowd forming around them.
"This lady is mannerless!" an older woman scolded.
Camela ignored them all.
She bent down, picked up one of the drafts, and studied it. Her eyebrows slowly arched with interest.
What a coincidence.
She lifted her chin and met the man's glacial stare. "I'll draw a better version of this design within a week," she declared boldly. "And when I do, you'll bow your head and apologize for your rudeness."
She extended her hand confidently.
The man didn't take it. His eyes turned even darker.
"If you fail to fulfill this… childish promise," he warned, voice dropping dangerously low, "I will make you pay—in ways you will never forget."
He turned on his heel and walked away, the crowd parting for him like he was royalty—or a storm they feared.
As the murmurs faded and the lobby returned to its usual rush, Kamela stared at his retreating back. Something about him tugged at her memory. A presence. A familiarity. But she couldn't piece it together.
She exhaled sharply and walked out of the hospital, her mind burdened with work fit for twenty designers. She flagged down a taxi and headed toward the mall.
After buying groceries and every material she could possibly need for her drafting marathon, she settled into a small restaurant at the salon for lunch, her mind already sketching lines, layouts, and possibilities.