Chapter 29 Fairs. #2
I want to start by saying this clearly: I don’t think you were “unprofessional.” I think you were frustrated. And from where I’m standing, that frustration makes sense.
There’s a particular kind of voice that doesn’t always fit neatly into award show narratives. It’s sharp. It’s opinionated. It doesn’t dilute itself to be digestible. That’s the voice I felt in your game. That’s also the voice I saw when you walked out.
I respect it.
I’m currently in early development discussions with Imaginate Studios regarding adaptations of my comic series Obsidian.
We’ve had a number of pitches from larger studios, but I haven’t felt understood by any of them.
Most proposals lean heavily into spectacle and lose the emotional architecture of the story.
Your work doesn’t.
You build tension through character. You allow moral ambiguity. You don’t flatten complex people into archetypes. That’s exactly what Obsidian requires.
I’d like to explore the possibility of you leading a game adaptation of the series under your studio. Not as a subcontractor. Not as a decorative “creative consultant.” As the narrative director with real authority.
If this is something you’re open to, I’d love to schedule a call this week. No pressure. This is just a conversation between two Black creators who care about the integrity of their work and its representation.
Regardless of your decision, I hope you know this: being misunderstood in a room does not mean you were wrong. Sometimes it just means you were ahead of the people judging you.
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Best,
Elliot Greene
Creator, Obsidian
Imaginate Studios
I read it once, then again, then again.
He wants to talk about adapting his comic, Obsidian, into a game.
Under my direction.
My chest tightens so hard I have to take a breath.
I close my eyes for a second.
Then open them again to make sure the email didn’t disappear.
It doesn’t.
I whisper, “No way.”
The Elliot Greene.
From Obsidian.
That comic sat in my uni bag for a year. That comic made me want to build worlds for a living. That comic is the reason I chose narrative design over safe corporate coding.
My hands shake.
I stand up like I’m about to run out the studio and scream in the street.
“Oi?” the receptionist asks gently. “You alright?”
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly. “I’m… I’m not fine. But I’m fine.”
I start pacing.
My phone buzzes again.
Another email.
Then a Teams message.
Then a Discord ping.
I’m too wired to answer any of it.
I just take off towards the curtain. Jabari is in the chair behind the partition, forearm resting out, artist wiping something down.
I step closer, still holding my phone like it’s proof that good things still happen.
“Big man, I just—” I start.
Then I see it. I stop mid-sentence.
On his forearm are two green eyes.
Detailed, sharp and very familiar.
The shape of them. The tilt. The lashes. The look I give him when I’m unimpressed. Mine. He did my eyes.
My throat closes.
I stare, unable to process it fast enough.
“You’re joking,” I whisper.
He shakes his head once.
The artist steps back, gives us space, and pretends he doesn’t exist.
I look at Jabari. Then at the tattoo. Then back at him.
“Are you mad?” I ask.
He watches me carefully. “Yeah.”
“Why would you do that?” My voice cracks, and I hate that it does.
He leans back slightly, like he’s trying not to crowd me. “Because I’m tired of you thinking I’m playing with you.”
My chest aches.
He continues, quiet but firm. “I hope this shows you how permanent I want this to be.”
I swallow hard.
“You’re insane,” I say again, but it comes out soft this time. “Proper mental, is what you are.”
He smirks faintly. “Probably.”
I blink fast. “You put my eyes on your body. For life.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re calm.”
“Should I be shaking?” he asks, amused.
“You should be scared.”
He raises his brows. “Of you?”
“Yes,” I hold my hands up to my temple and wiggle my fingers around. “I got witchy eyes, remember?”
He looks at me with that stubborn calm. “I’m not scared of you, Jelly. I’m scared of you leaving.”
I stare at him. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
He nods like that’s reasonable. “You probably should eat something.”
“I did eat that vegan chicken patty ting.”
He laughs. “That’s not real food.”
“It is real food.”
“No babes. That’s paper-mache.”
“Shut up.”
The artist clears his throat politely. “Alright, mate. I need ten more minutes.”
Jabari nods then looks at me and gestures towards the couch in the room.
I sit, and watch. He finishes the tattoo session and walks out after, forearm wrapped.
We step outside and the air feels different. We grab something warm to drink from a corner shop and sit for a bit. We actually sit. Like normal people.
We talk about my email from Elliot and I express my genuine excitement.
When my phone buzzes again, I expect it to be another email from El with details of the project.
Instead, it was Za.
I open it and my stomach drops.
Za : come over for your stuff.
Just like that.
The warmth drains out of me.
Jabari sees my face. “What?”
“She wants me to come collect my things.”
He nods slowly. “Okay.”
He didn’t push for more. Just a quiet acceptance that something is about to shift.
Then we go.
The flat is quiet when we get there.
I expect her to be sitting on the couch waiting to make me bleed again. I expect a confrontation. I expect closure.
But she’s not there.
My things are packed neatly by the door.
Folded. Stacked. Labelled.
A part of me feels sick. Another part of me feels relieved.
Like the universe finally stopped dangling the decision in front of me and chose for all of us.
I stand in the doorway for a second too long.
Jabari stays behind me, not stepping in, not claiming space that isn’t his.
“You alright?” he asks.
I nod slowly. “I think so.”
I pick up the first box. Then the second.
My hands don’t shake.
That surprises me.
The pain is there, but it’s not panicked. It’s quiet and feels like grief. I take one last look at the living room.
Then I turn and walk out.
When I lock the door, I feel a strange calm settle in my chest.
It’s acceptance.
Outside, the street is cold and alive and moving forward, like it doesn’t care about who I lost or what I broke.
Jabari reaches for my hand.
I let him, exhaling long and slow.
Somewhere behind the calm, my chest still aches for Za.
But my hand is in his and this time, I don’t pull away.