10. Chapter 10
Theo
The marketing department at Nexus Gaming is a special kind of hell today.
I spent three hours in a meeting about "engagement metrics" and "conversion funnels," and I was almost ready to swan dive out the window.
Jace is lucky—he gets to hide in his coding cave all day, headphones on, ignoring humanity.
Meanwhile, I was stuck nodding along while our VP droned on about "synergistic brand opportunities" like he's reading from a buzzword bingo card.
The only one who seemed to enjoy himself was Matthews, our senior exec with the thousand-dollar watch and permanent smirk. He kept grilling the team for ‘conversion metrics’ and demanding detailed reports like he didn’t already have an assistant for that. The guy thrived on making people squirm.
He caught my eye briefly, smiling in that way that wasn’t friendly so much as evaluative, like I was a product on the shelf he may or may not buy.
Now I'm staring at my computer screen, watching the numbers blur together in a spreadsheet that stopped making sense about twenty minutes ago.
The quarterly marketing report is due tomorrow, and I've been putting it off for weeks.
Not because I can't do it—I'm damn good at my job—but because it's mind-numbing, soul-crushing busywork that makes me question my life choices.
My phone buzzes beside my keyboard. Probably Jace with another passive-aggressive reminder about gaming tonight. Or maybe my mother, checking if I'm "eating properly" and "meeting nice girls." I glance down, ready to ignore it.
But it's not either of them.
It's a notification from Behind the Lens.
My pulse jumps as I see the name: Vanta has sent you a private message.
Holy shit.
I glance around the office. Everyone's focused on their own screens, headphones in, lost in their own digital worlds. No one's paying attention to me. Still, this isn't exactly something I want to open at my desk.
No one even acknowledges me as I stand and stride toward the bathroom, trying to look casual while my heart hammers against my ribs.
Vanta doesn't send private messages. Not to anyone.
She's the internet's favorite silent sin—mysterious and untouchable.
Her shows are carefully choreographed performances where she never speaks, never acknowledges individuals beyond a subtle nod.
And yet, she's messaged me.
I lock myself in one of the stalls of the bathroom, leaning against the door as I unlock my phone. The notification takes me straight to the Behind the Lens app, where a small envelope icon pulses with unread content.
I tap it, and the message unfolds:
Vanta cordially invites you to participate in an exclusive calendar photoshoot and cam session for Behind the Lens.
The theme is Video Game Fantasy, and your presence has been specifically requested by the performer.
Full confidentiality guaranteed. Potential reward for participation.
Please respond with your interest and availability.
I read it three times, certain I've misunderstood.
But the words remain unchanged. Vanta—the enigmatic performer I've been watching for months, tipping generously, admiring from a digital distance—wants me to participate in a photoshoot and cam session with her.
A video game fantasy photoshoot and cam session.
It's too perfect to be real. Like someone reached into my brain, extracted my most private fantasy, and turned it into an invitation.
I'm a gamer, sure, but more than that, I'm a marketer who specializes in gaming.
I understand the psychology of immersion, the power of fantasy.
And Vanta... she's been my escape. My secret indulgence.
The digital goddess who performs in silence, her eyes conveying more emotion behind that jeweled mask than most people manage with their entire bodies.
I exit the stall, feeling suddenly too restricted by the space.
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
I'm not bad looking—tall, with the kind of features people call "sharp" or "intense" depending on their mood.
I keep myself in shape, dress well, know how to charm when necessary.
But am I the type of guy who gets personally invited to exclusive photoshoots with cam performers?
Apparently, I am.
Unless it's a scam. Or a mass invitation sent to all her top tippers. The thought deflates me slightly.
I begin drafting a response, then delete it. Try again. Delete again. What do you say to something like this? "Yes please" feels too eager. "I'll consider it" feels too aloof. And any attempt at clever wordplay dies before I can type it.
Jesus fucking Christ, I’m meant to be a marketing expert and good at this shit.
As I struggle to find the right words, my mind drifts to pink hair and quiet smiles.
To the barista who never speaks but communicates volumes with her expressive hands and knowing eyes.
Wren. The girl I've been trying to charm for months with increasingly ridiculous coffee orders and more recent attempts at sign language.
And then, unbidden, I think of Silence—our enigmatic third in Wasteland Chronicles.
The player who never uses voice chat but saves our asses with perfect sniper shots and sarcastic text messages.
The one Jace and I have speculated about endlessly.
The one who feels like part of our team despite never having spoken a single word.
Three women. Three silent presences in my life. Each mysterious in their own way. Each drawing me in with their quiet strength.
"I guess I'm just into the quiet ones," I mutter to my reflection, running a hand through my hair.
The realization hits me with unexpected force.
It's true. I'm drawn to silence. To the space between words.
To the challenge of understanding someone who communicates differently.
It's why I started learning sign language for Wren.
Why I respect Silence's boundaries in the game.
Why I'm so captivated by Vanta's wordless performances.
And now one of them is inviting me into her world.
Before I can overthink it any further, I type a simple response:
I would be honored to participate. Available any evening or weekend. Looking forward to bringing this fantasy to life with you.
I hit send before I can change my mind, watching the message disappear with a small animation. My heart is racing again, a mix of excitement and apprehension churning in my stomach.
Almost immediately, another message appears:
Thank you for accepting. The shoot will take place this Saturday at 8 PM at Behind the Lens. Address and security details to follow from our administrator. Please note the following requirements:
1. You will be required to wear a mask at all times to maintain privacy and anonymity for the entire photoshoot and cam session.
2. The cam session will be structured as an interactive game with points awarded for completing certain actions, with a special reward to be disclosed prior to the session.
3. Please list any hard limits in your responding form.
Performer's hard limits include: no breathplay or choking, no blood play, no knife play, no degradation, no hard impact play.
We look forward to creating something memorable together.
A message comes through from another account labeled Behind the Lens, accompanied by a series of forms. The first form requests my contact information, emergency contact, and a section for "Hard Limits and Boundaries.
" Another form is an NDA, detailing confidentiality terms and conditions.
There's also a guide to security procedures, outlining protocols for maintaining discretion and safety during the shoot.
This is really happening.
I methodically fill out each form, listing my own boundaries—nothing too restrictive, just basic respect and consent parameters.
Signing the NDA, I acknowledge the importance of maintaining confidentiality.
As I review the security guide, a strange sense of calm washes over me.
This feels right somehow. Like I'm stepping through a door I've been standing in front of for too long.
I send the completed forms and receive an immediate confirmation:
Thank you for your submission. Final details will be sent 24 hours before the shoot. Please prepare to embody your gaming persona. Masks will be provided, but you may bring your own if preferred. Discretion is paramount. Your compliance with security protocols is appreciated.
I lock my phone and lean against the sink, trying to process everything. In just a few days, I'll be face to face—or rather, mask to mask—with Vanta. Participating in some kind of video game fantasy photoshoot. It's surreal. Exciting. Slightly terrifying.
What if I disappoint her? What if the reality doesn't live up to whatever she's imagining? What if I freeze up or say something stupid?
I shake my head, dismissing the doubts. This is what I do professionally—create fantasies, sell experiences, understand what people want before they know they want it. I can handle a photoshoot, no matter how unconventional.
Besides, there's something thrilling about the anonymity of it all. The masks. The game structure. The chance to be someone else entirely for a night.
I splash water on my face and straighten my tie, composing myself before heading back to my desk. As I walk through the office, I catch sight of Jace hunched over his keyboard, brow furrowed in concentration as he debugs some complex piece of code.
For a brief, wild moment, I consider telling him about the invitation.
We share most things—work frustrations, gaming strategies, even our mutual fascination with the mysterious Silence.
But this feels different. Private. Something I want to keep for myself, at least for now. Not to mention I just signed an NDA.
Back at my desk, I throw myself into the quarterly report with renewed energy. The numbers that bored me earlier now seem manageable, even interesting. Amazing what a little anticipation can do for productivity.
As I work, my mind keeps drifting to Saturday night. To masks and games and silent communication. To the strange convergence of fantasy and reality that's about to unfold.
Whatever happens, I know one thing for certain: I'm walking through that door. And I'm not looking back.