Chapter 23
Sienna's POV
The next morning, I was three steps from the studio entrance when my phone buzzed in my pocket.
The notification banner made my heart stutter mid-stride.
Catalyst Project - Second Round Selection
I stopped on the sidewalk, thumb hovering over the screen. The morning cold bit through my jacket, but my palms were already sweating.
Inside the studio, I went to my office and set down my bag. My laptop was still open, frozen on last night's work. I pulled out my phone, hands unsteady as I opened the email.
The sender list had tripled. Catherine's name sat at the top, followed by Project Coordinator, Technical Director, Materials Specialist, and three others I didn't recognize. The subject line was clinical and final: Second Round Selection – Prototype Phase.
Ms. Thorne,
Congratulations. Your submission has advanced to the second round of the Catalyst Project selection process.
This phase requires:
1) Detailed structural engineering documentation
2) Material selection justification with technical specifications
3) Preparation for prototype fabrication
Selected candidates will move into prototype collaboration with the athlete management team. Schedule and deliverables to follow.
Catalyst Project Team
I read it three times. Each word felt heavier than the last.
This wasn't a workshop invitation anymore. This was a contract without signatures, a commitment written in corporate efficiency. The language had shifted—less exploratory, more binding. Like I'd already signed something I couldn't unsign.
My chest tightened. The coffee I'd grabbed on the way in sat forgotten on the desk.
"Sienna!"
I looked up. Reina stood in the doorway.
"Did you—" She stopped, reading my face. "What happened?"
I turned my phone toward her without speaking.
She scanned the email, then let out a sharp breath. "Holy shit. Sienna, do you understand what this means?" Her voice rose with every word. "This isn't just some portfolio opportunity anymore. This is a career pivot. Do you know how many designers would kill to get into Catalyst's second round?"
I looked at her, waiting for the relief to hit.
It didn't.
Instead, there was just this cold, expanding knot in my stomach.
"I know," I said quietly. "But this also means I can't back out now."
Reina blinked. "Why would you want to back out?"
I didn't answer. My eyes drifted back to the screen, to that one phrase: prototype collaboration with the athlete management team.
Reina's excitement dimmed slightly. She set her bag down, crossed her arms. "You're still worried about who it is."
It wasn't a question.
I turned away, pretending to organize the papers scattered across my desk. "It doesn't matter who it is."
"Then why do you look like you're about to run?"
Because once I move forward, there's no way out. Because if it's him, I'll have to see him.
"I'm not running," I said instead. "I'm just... processing."
Reina studied me for a long moment, then sighed. "Okay. But whatever's going on in your head, you need to deal with it fast. Because this project is real now, and if you freeze up, someone else will take your spot."
She wasn't wrong.
I nodded, exhaling slowly. "Let's just focus on what they're asking for."
"Good." Reina's energy snapped back into place. "What do they need?"
"Engineering docs. Material specs. Prototype prep."
"Deadline?"
I scrolled down. "They'll send details within twenty-four hours."
Reina grabbed her tablet. "Then we'd better start pulling references."
I appreciated her immediate shift into work mode. It gave me something to anchor to.
Over the next few hours, we divided the tasks. Reina handled administrative logistics—sourcing material suppliers, organizing the existing sketches into presentation-ready formats. I focused on translating my concept into language that engineers could actually use.
By mid-afternoon, my inbox pinged again.
This time, it was a file download link. Password-protected.
I entered the code from the email and watched as a compressed folder appeared: Athlete Biomechanics Data – Confidential.
I clicked.
The folder contained high-resolution pressure maps, dynamic force analysis, injury history models, gait analysis videos. Everything meticulously labeled and categorized.
I opened the first video file.
The footage was clinical—shot from multiple angles in a training facility. The athlete's face was blurred out, only torso and legs visible. But the movement was unmistakable.
A drop-back. The kind quarterbacks do a thousand times in practice.
I watched frame by frame. The footwork was textbook perfect—weight transfer smooth, pivot tight. But then, at second forty-seven, I saw it.
A micro-adjustment. Right ankle rolling inward, just slightly. Compensation.
The left knee absorbed the imbalance, torque redirecting through the joint at an angle that made my stomach drop.
I knew that pattern.
Watched it happen in real-time on a muddy high school field when someone landed wrong after a throw and tried to walk it off. I'd been the one sitting on the bleachers with ice packs, the one who'd wrapped that ankle while he insisted he was fine.
My hand froze on the mouse.
No.
I forced myself to close the video. Pushed my chair back. Walked to the window.
It's a common injury. Thousands of football injuries. You're projecting.
I closed my eyes.
One step at a time. Finish the work. Don't spiral.
When I returned to my desk, I methodically deleted the video file from my recent downloads and opened a fresh document.
If I was going to do this—really do this—I needed to separate the design from the person. Treat this like any other technical problem.
No names. No history. Just biomechanics and material science.
I pulled up the data again, this time forcing myself to look only at the numbers.
The ankle compensation was severe. Chronic instability, likely from repeated micro-traumas that had never fully healed. The kind of thing that gets worse under high-impact stress.
Whoever this athlete was, they needed more than a standard orthotic. They needed adaptive support—something that could respond to changing conditions in real-time.
My original modular concept was good. But it wasn't enough.
I opened my CAD software and started adjusting the design.
Hours blurred together. Reina brought me coffee at some point. I drank it without tasting.
By the time I looked up again, the sky outside had turned dark. My wrist ached from holding the stylus too long, but the design on my screen finally looked right.
Three-layer system. Dynamic stabilization. Athlete-controlled adjustment dial. Lightweight composite shell.
This wasn't just equipment anymore. It was protection. A safeguard for someone whose body was already breaking down under the weight of their own ambition.
I sat back, staring at the render.
This person can't afford a generic solution. They need something built specifically for them.
The thought settled over me like a cold blanket.
Because if I was right about who this was, I already knew why they needed it.
And that made everything so much worse.
I saved the file, closed my laptop, and grabbed my jacket.
Reina looked up from her desk. "Heading out?"
"Yeah. Need to clear my head."
She nodded. "Don't stay up all night obsessing."
"No promises."