Chapter One

One

T oday I'm going to quit.

End it all and go back to Brazil.

Because my dream of happiness in the happiest country in the world ends when my lease does, in ten days.

I climb the stairs to the second level of Scorpio Games, and the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee and brand-new Apple devices welcomes me. The lack of typing or chatter in the open office is explained by the circle of people standing in the empty space between the desks.

I swiftly leave my purse on my desk and join my teammates, squeezing myself between the quality assurance lead and Chiara, the sweet Italian QA tester who sits next to me and is the closest I have to a friend here. It's the second time this week that I'm late for our daily 9:00 a.m. stand-up meeting, and everyone but Chiara ignores my arrival as they listen to Ellen, the 2D artist, listing the tasks she must tackle in the next few hours. Chiara announces she'll be looking for bugs in the latest version of Beetle Battle Match 3. I then tell everyone my goal is to make three more puzzle levels before the weekend and tweak the difficulty on some of the ones I've already made.

My answer is almost the same every day, and I always fulfill my promise, even if that means working a few extra hours. Sometimes I even make more levels than I say I'll do, just because I'm efficient. My passion is long gone.

I wonder when I lost it.

I like the place, but I don't like my place in it. I'm ready for more challenges, to use my skills and creativity without so many boundaries.

But that won't happen here. And even if it did, it wouldn't matter. Because the lease on my small studio apartment in the center of Copenhagen will expire in ten days with no possibility of extension, and I have nothing else in sight.

Once I sit at my desk, I open my phone to the Beetle Battle Match 3 app and play level 679 to remember what I've already done so I can do something slightly different for level 680. A notification then pops up at the top of the screen. I'm ready to ignore the message, but Mom keeps spamming me, so I open the chat.

Mom: Nada de apartamento ainda?

Mom: Seu quarto está te esperando aqui! ?

I take a long, deep breath. She's asking me if I found an apartment, is saying my room is waiting for me, and is illustrating it all with a row of emojis to remind me of all the love and sunshine I'm missing.

To top it off, she sends me pictures of the room I had in her house. I was sharing it with my cousin Mariana, who was in college and couldn't stand living with her parents in a satellite city an hour away from the centrally located University of Brasília.

Neither of us paid rent to my parents, which would have been an insult. (Mom would rather pay me to live with her.) I'd have given anything to have my own place—where I could be independent, make my own choices, and find out who I wanted to be in peace and solitude—but I couldn't afford my living expenses with the jobs I had in Brasília. Besides, Mom wouldn't have left me alone, no matter how many buses she had to take to visit me.

I get an empty feeling at the bottom of my stomach looking at the tiny room with pink walls full of outdated stickers and posters. The emptiness hits my heart with a punch as I stare at the bunk bed I know still creaks, the narrow desk that hardly accommodates my towering pile of office supplies, the plastic computer chair—all the stuff I left behind.

Which doesn't at all seduce me or make me nostalgic. They are only reminders of why I shouldn't go back.

"How's your apartment search?" Chiara asks me. I blink at her, lowering my phone.

She raises an eyebrow and ties her pink hair up in a ponytail. "Have you found anything yet?"

I shake my head. "No...nothing."

"Look, I think you should—" she rambles on, and I stop listening, my eyes staring unfocused at the HYGGE mug I bought in a souvenir shop the day I arrived in Denmark.

Everyone tells me that something will come up. They give me names and links. I visit apartments, but other people get them. I find something online, but it's too expensive or too far away, or I'm applicant number 379. That's how hard it is to find a place to live in Copenhagen.

I no longer expect I'll get a place in the next few days. Just as I no longer expect to feel excitement about my work. I've accepted that my dream of living a Danish life will never be more than just a dream.

"You need to give it a try, Sol," Chiara says, her voice startling me out of my thoughts.

I have no clue what she's referring to. Probably another website for finding rentals. But her words bring out the stubborn part of me I've been fighting against lately—the optimistic, hopeful side of Sol Carvalho that says I need to give it another try, just one more .

I look down at the photo. This is what I'm going back to if I give up now. A life where fear suffocates me. Fear of never having enough money to be truly independent. Fear of never having a family of my own with a man who loves me and respects me. Fear of not getting home in one piece when I walk alone in the dark after long hours in an underpaid job that is far from my game design ambitions.

My heart races, and I make a quick decision.

I go to the eleven o'clock design meeting with my hands sweating and my pulse throbbing in my ears. I avoid everyone's eyes, but when they start discussing new features for the game, I swallow my shyness and pitch a detailed idea I've been entertaining for the past few weeks and never dared to bring up.

When I finish, my manager, Lars Holm, says, "That's an interesting idea."

Other people nod, agreeing with him, and my heart does a thump-thump-thump in what feels like hope...

Then Martin Olesen, game designer, raises his hand.

"I see a few problems with this," he says and goes on to destroy my idea.

Ripped. To. Absolute. Pieces.

I want to murder him. But I keep a calm face.

"You might have a point, Martin," Lars concludes. People nod. "Let's just keep doing what we've been doing and monitor player response. Jessica, do you have any data for us?"

I look at Martin. He acts as if I'm not in the room. Everyone pays attention to Jessica's slides, and I want to storm out.

Why is Martin Olesen so fu— fantastically annoying? It's not the first time he's obliterated one of my suggestions. He's always showing a feverish need to be the cleverest, most accomplished person in the room, regardless of who he steps on.

For the rest of the meeting, I don't see the numbers or charts displayed on the big TV. All I see are the percentages surrounding the current possibilities of my life.

Chance of getting more interesting tasks at work: 0%.

Chance of finding a place to rent in the next ten days: 1%.

There is no future for me in Denmark, that's the harsh truth. I sigh, looking at my perfect self-manicured nails. I have beauty salon skills because, since I was twelve, I've been helping Mom in her business. It's the job I'll have the moment I land back home under my mother's overprotective wings.

When we're leaving the meeting, a hand squeezes my shoulder. I look back at Lars, who's smiling at me. "Are you ready for our one-to-one?"

"Sure." My stomach sinks. No, I'm not at all ready.

We walk to another empty meeting room and sit across from each other.

"So..." My boss interlaces his fingers on the table, speaking English, the official language used in the company. "Sol."

I wish Lars would say my name right, with the Portuguese pronunciation (sounding similar to Saul ). Sol is also "sun" in Danish though, and my boss calls me that, with the closed "o" (more like soul ). I could tell him to call me Marisol instead, but I didn't correct him the first time, and doing so now would be awkward.

"It's been more than a month since we had a one-to-one, so I'd like to hear how it's all going."

These monthly meetings have been meaningless because I always say, "It's all great, no problems!" That won't happen this time though.

I woke up ready for this moment, but now that I'm here, a void opens inside me, sucking down all my dreams and hopes.

I take a deep, painful breath. "I think it's time we talk openly."

"What about closely ? I need that door shut, sorry," he says, laughing at what he seems to consider genius wordplay. He rises to close the door and sits back heavily, hands clasped. "Go on!" He smiles. Lars is a friendly guy. He's always joking around and seeing the glass half full.

If you told me to think of a stereotypical Danish person, I'd think of him. He's tall, slim, blond, and blue-eyed. He has good taste in design and dresses soberly. He has a wife named Lotte and two teenage sons, and they live in a beautiful white house in Frederiksberg, one of the best neighborhoods in the city. He bikes to work every day and is a fundamentalist when it comes to eating organic food. I know all this because he's not afraid to share details of his life with anyone in the office, no matter their role.

Unlike me, who stays quiet unless I'm positive people won't think I'm the odd one out.

"Lars, I..." The words are stuck in my throat. After a moment of awkward silence, my boss takes over.

"Listen, I think your ideas are great."

Wait, what?

"You're a very promising young woman, Sol. I've been impressed with your performance."

Okay, I was not expecting that. I lean back and let him speak.

"In fact, I think you might be able to handle more responsibility."

"What? Yes, absolutely," the words rush out of my mouth. "I'd love that!"

"The question is where we should place you." He scratches his shaved chin, thinking to himself. "You've only been with us for six months, but I haven't forgotten that you've worked with games for five years in Brazil at Vortex."

I nod, a prickle of gratitude tickling my stomach. It was thanks to my hard work at the Brasília-based indie game studio that I got my opportunity at Scorpio.

I joined the Vortex team the year the company was founded. Their mobile games didn't have the scope and reach of Scorpio's high-budget, high-profit games, but we were innovative and passionate—which, to be honest, was our driving force, considering how little we got paid. At one point, I earned a low salary. Then I worked part-time unpaid for half a year in the hopes our game would sell enough to keep me there full-time on a livable wage.

That didn't happen.

And then fate intervened.

One of the three founders got sick and couldn't go to S?o Paulo for the biggest video game convention in Latin America, so I offered to take his place. There, I met some amazing people from several international game studios, including Scorpio Games.

That day changed everything for me. I had a pleasant talk with Scorpio's recruiter and got an interview with Lars a few days later.

I look at him now, remembering our first video call, how nervous I was. My English kept failing me, but that didn't ruin my chances. He saw how much I wanted the opportunity, how ready I was to move across the world and make it happen.

Maybe the dream doesn't have to end yet.

"After the Fun Season, we'll be doing some rearranging and internal hiring," he says.

"Fun Season?" I ask, not familiar with the term.

Lars smiles. "Every year, from October to the end of December, we have a series of fun events to warm up the team, lift the spirits, and get to know each other better." I nod, listening eagerly. "You might call it a tournament, but we are a game company, so we're not so competitive," he says sarcastically.

I laugh, curious to hear more.

"New people are joining the company all the time, and I appreciate the opportunity to get to know my coworkers on a more personal level." Lars rests his elbows on the armrests of his chair, staring at me. "I look forward to learning more about you, Sol, and finding the best place for you in this company." He then adds, "Oh, that sounded weird. Please don't misinterpret me."

I smile back at him and wonder if what he means is "If I like you enough, you get a promotion."

"We'll start to work on a new project next year," he continues. I sit straighter, my heart pounding. "There's nothing defined yet, but we want it to be different from what we've been doing so far. It could be any kind of game. We're open to innovation."

If I could use one word to describe what I love most in this field, it'd be innovation , so my heartbeat rises another level.

"That's great news!"

"We'll be hiring a game director internally to lead this project. We want someone creative, proactive, and full of ideas. A leader with vision. Someone who's really in for the ride."

Instead of beating even faster, my heart stops for a fraction of a second. Did he say game director ? I thought I was at the descent of the roller coaster when I'm actually on the climb. Or the loop, perhaps.

This should be the moment when I pitch myself as a great fit for the position. I sense that it's not necessary though, from the way Lars is looking at me. Just from telling me all this, it's obvious he's already considering me. But he can't promise anything yet. He wants the right person.

Someone who won't just suddenly go back to Brazil.

Someone he likes.

I'll have to work for this promotion, but I'm so in.

My smile fades, however, when he says, "Martin was talking about a truly innovative idea the other day. A dating game of sorts."

My insides boil. Not Martin the Beetle . Yes, he is just like Marlin the Beetle, the annoying insect in our game that blocks your tiles and prevents you from making matches.

"Are you considering Martin for the role?" I dare ask.

"He's been showing his potential, just like you." Lars drums his fingers on the table. "There are many talented people here. I'm keeping my eyes open. Let's see what happens, shall we?" Lars winks at me meaningfully, and I take my cue to leave.

Okay. Change of plans. I won't be quitting today after all.

Now I must beat Martin the Beetle to get my dream job.

Which means I need to find a place to live. Like, now .

Once I sit back at my desk, I ask Chiara, "What were you telling me before about apartments? What is it I should do again?"

Her eyebrows rise as if she suspects I didn't pay attention but won't blame me for it. "You should talk to Mark," she answers patiently. "He knows someone."

A flush of excitement washes over me. "Oh. Right. Thanks!"

My phone buzzes. It's my mom, desperate to know where I am because I haven't answered her messages.

I take a deep breath and stand up to look for Mark, a programmer I've never talked with before.

"Erik Storm is renting out a spare room," Mark tells me once I find his desk. "You should call him," Mark says, and gives me Erik's number. "He was a programmer here but quit last winter to work on a personal project."

I thank him and walk back to my desk, watching my mom's messages piling up. She saw I saw them, and is annoyed that I'm ignoring her, because she's been very worried. I'm about to answer that I'm at work and can't talk now. Instead, though, I tap on the new contact I've just added.

With a hopeful smile, I say a silent prayer.

Erik Storm, please give me a room.