Chapter 4
four
. . .
Witt
Encrypted Message: Glitch
Pressing “Start” is the hardest part.
Encrypted Message: Rune
Can you please just get the treasure? We need gems.
The email has been sitting in my inbox for twenty-three minutes.
I know because I've checked.
Three times.
The subject line reads:
URGENT: INVESTOR CONCERNS
Nothing about it is urgent. Investors think everything is urgent.
You know what’s urgent?
Server outages are urgent.
Security breaches are urgent.
Finding out your quarterly growth was twenty-one percent instead of twenty-three percent is not urgent.
I move the email into a folder labeled Important Not Urgent.
Then I move it back to Urgent.
Then I move it into the folder again.
The organization system is important. People laugh when I say that, but those same people lose things constantly.
A knock sounds at my office door.
I don't look up. "Come in."
The door opens.
"Reorganizing emails for fun again?"
Greyson, he thinks he’s funny.
He fills the doorway in a faded Armadillos hoodie, athletic shorts, and slides that probably cost more than most people’s dress shoes.
His hair is still damp like he came straight from a workout, but there’s no usual grin, no loose-shouldered swagger, no instant commentary about my office being a billionaire cave.
Only Greyson would say that like it's an insult and still look like he came here needing something.
Only Greyson, one of my brothers, would say that like it's an insult.
"Efficiency isn’t controversial."
"It is when you're rich enough to buy an island."
"Efficiency is why I could buy an island… I don't need an island,” I say, rolling my eyes.
"That's not the point."
"Then why bring it up?"
Greyson drops into the chair across from my desk, but he doesn’t sprawl the way he usually does. He sits forward, elbows on his knees, one hand rubbing over his jaw like he’s trying to sand the emotion off his face.
I turn back to my monitor.
Three seconds pass. Five. Ten.
Interesting.
Normally, Greyson would already be talking about football, recruiting, Sutton, their kids, or a commercial he saw six months ago.
He’s a talker. I am not.
Today, his knee bounces once, stops, then starts again. His thumb drags over the edge of his phone without waking the screen. That is data. Unusual data.
Today, he’s quiet. I glance up and find him staring through the glass at downtown Austin, shoulders rounded in a way I have almost never seen on him. Greyson is usually motion and noise and confidence held together by athletic tape. Right now, he looks too still.
Something's wrong.
"What broke?"
His attention shifts to me. "What?"
"Something broke."
"Nothing broke."
"You've been silent for twelve seconds."
"That's not weird."
"It is for you."
Greyson exhales heavily. It’s definitely something. I lean back in my chair. "Paulina?"
I’ve seen this look on my dad’s face when things feel just out of his control.
When Greyson’s face twists, I know I figured out the problem.
"She's eighteen," he says like I didn’t know or wouldn’t remember. My family doesn’t get that I remember everything.
"Correct."
"Trevor broke up with her," he says. And the way he says it, I can’t tell whether he’s relieved or devastated.
"Statistically inevitable."
"I hate statistics."
"You liked them when they said you were the GOAT of quarterbacks,” I say matter-of-factly.
He nods. "True. I hate statistics that aren’t set in stone by events. I liked her better when she wanted to be with us all the time. I hate that she’s grown up and hurting.”
Why is he telling me this?
"You want her to be twelve again?” I ask.
His eyes narrow, but then his eyes soften around the edges. “Twelve,” he says, swallowing a chuckle. “She put ketchup in my coffee."
"It was an experiment.”
"She was attempting murder.”
I tap my finger on the desk and look just past him. "Results were inconclusive."
Greyson laughs despite himself.
Mission accomplished. Most people need emotional support. Happy I could provide a distraction. Apparently that's close enough.
His shoulders relax. "You're impossible."
"Yet you keep coming back."
"Yep, I can’t get enough of my baby brother.”
Before I can retaliate, the office door opens.
Dara steps inside carrying her tablet. "Your ten o'clock arrived."
I glance at the clock. Seven minutes early and I immediately like her more than the candidate from Friday.
"Oh no,” Greyson says, expelling a breath.
"What?"
"You did the eyebrow thing."
"I don't have a thing."
"You absolutely have a thing."
I ignore him.
Dara hides a smile. "Should I send her in?"
"Yes."
Greyson stands. "Good luck."
“Evaluating talent isn’t luck. It’s skill.”
His grin grows. “Witt… it’s just what…,” he mumbles, shaking his head all the way to the door and closes it behind him.
I’ve always known I think differently than most, but why hasn’t it gotten any easier? I try to think like others but it’s so fucking frustrating.
Silence settles over the office. A few seconds later, the door pushes open and Maci Hart walks in.
Interesting.
She isn't what I expected.
Most applicants for this position arrive looking like they stepped out of a gaming convention.
Hoodies.
Graphic tees.
Collectible pins.
Energy drinks.
A visible lack of sleep.
Not Maci Hart, she looks professional in her fitted blazer and dark jeans.
Polished.
Confident.
Then I notice the silver-pink hue of her hair.
It’s barely noticeable, the kind of color most people would dismiss as a trick from the lighting, but it’s there.
So is the tiny game-controller stud in one ear and a pixel heart tattoo disappearing beneath her sleeve when she reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear.
It’s unexpected like someone hid a gamer inside a corporate presentation and dared anyone to notice. The details are small, careful, but they shift the picture of her.
Polished enough to sit with investors. But can she do everything as promised in her phone interviews and her assessment?
I stand as she crosses the office and extends her hand.
Firm grip and without hesitation or a nervous smile. She looks me in the eye and I’m the one who looks away. Looking into someone’s eyes is uncomfortable for me, painful even.
She makes no attempt to impress me.
Good. I don’t have the time or patience for schmoozing.
"Witt O'Ryan.”
"I know."
One corner of my mouth lifts. "I would hope so."
A flash of amusement touches her lips. She’s not intimidated and I’m not used to that. Other than my family, everyone seems nervous around me with one other exception, Dara.
I gesture for Ms. Hart to sit and she takes the seat Greyson was sitting in.
As she settles into the chair, I find myself studying her more closely. Not because she's beautiful. Although she is.
Because she doesn't fit any category my brain wants to put her in.
Most software architects spend their lives behind screens and wear simple clothing.
Most creative applicants look artistic.
Most gamers fit somewhere in between.
Maci Hart somehow manages all three.
Her figure is softer than the women who usually walk through these doors. Curves that don't apologize for existing. A body built for living rather than posing. And somehow she carries herself with enough confidence that it becomes one of the first things I notice.
People who are comfortable in their own skin are rare.
People who are comfortable in their own skin while interviewing for a six-figure position in front of a billionaire are nearly extinct.
Dara quietly exits and the door clicks shut.
Ms. Hart sits patiently, waiting while most candidates rush to fill silence.
She doesn't. Another point in her favor.
I open her portfolio. "Tell me why you're here."
She answers immediately. "Because your users aren't leaving."
It’s unrehearsed and free from corporate buzzwords.
That gets my attention, since most applicants start with growth or revenue or monetization. They never start with retention. Retention is harder and it matters almost more than anything other than building an action-packed game.
I lean back. "Explain." I want to leave it wide open, so I don’t lead her into what I want her to say.
"Companies obsess over acquisition." Her voice remains calm and steady. “They spend millions bringing players into an ecosystem." She folds her hands together, her voice full of enthusiasm. “But if the experience isn't sticky, none of it matters."
I nod. Good. She’s good.
"The goal isn't downloads." Her eyes lock on mine. "The goal is emotional investment."
Something shifts inside my chest.
Those exact words.
The same words from her application.
The same reason I moved her to the top of the pile. Because in all my years playing games, that’s the key. Emotional investment.
"That's a nice answer." My tone doesn’t match my words.
Her brows lift. "You disagree?"
"I think most people confuse emotional investment with entertainment."
She doesn’t hesitate. "Then your users are staying for the wrong reason. People stay where they feel connected. Features bring them in, but community keeps them there."
Now we're talking.
Real strategy—not marketing or buzzwords, strategy.
"How would you improve our e-football division?"
Most candidates answer with tournaments, prize pools, streaming partnerships and advertising campaigns. All have been done.
“Story.” Maci surprises me.
This makes me sit up in my chair. I challenge, “Story doesn't matter if gameplay is bad."
"And gameplay doesn't matter if nobody cares who they're playing as."
Is she questioning my premise?
She nods and scoots to the edge of her seat. "Football fans already exist. Gamers already exist. The challenge is creating emotional ownership."
Now she has my full attention.
"If a player creates a quarterback and guides him through five seasons, that's not data.
" Her hands animated as she talks. Her eyes passionate and alive.
"That's investment. That’s his or her QB.
If they build rivalries, unlock memories, earn achievements, and create moments they're proud of, they'll come back. "
I find myself forgetting this is an interview.
Because she isn't answering questions—she's solving problems.
Exactly what I need.
"What would you change first?"
"Community,” she says with zero hesitation. "Your users should feel connected even when they aren't playing."
Forums.
Creator partnerships.
Player identity.
Social engagement.
Cross-platform integration.
She's seeing the entire ecosystem.
Not individual features.
The ecosystem.
Exactly what a Creative Strategist should do.
For the next hour we discuss retention funnels, onboarding systems, player psychology, content cycles, engagement loops, seasonal events, user behavior, community building, and long-term scalability.
Not once does she stumble.
Not once does she try to impress me.
And somehow that impresses me more than anything else.
She leans forward and points toward one of the engagement reports displayed on my monitor.
"You're looking at the wrong metric."
I arch a brow. “Am I?"
"Yeah." She doesn't sound intimidated or arrogant, just certain. "The churn isn't happening because players are frustrated." Her finger taps the screen. “It’s happening because they stopped feeling progress or connected.”
Interesting.
"Explain."
"The best games don't reward achievement."
My attention sharpens.
"They reward momentum."
Something about the way she says it tugs at a memory—a distant one, yet familiar like hearing a song you haven't listened to in years.
Before I can place it, she continues.
"If users feel like they're moving forward, they'll forgive almost anything."
My pulse kicks unexpected, because I've heard something similar before. Not those exact words, but the idea and the logic and pattern behind it.
For a brief second I think about Rune.
Then I immediately shove the thought aside. Not everything traces back to her. No matter what Parker says.
I glance at the clock and as expected Maci Hart notices.
Three investor meetings.
A board call.
Two acquisition proposals.
And a naming rights presentation for the e-sports wing is waiting for me this afternoon.
When I stand, Maci gathers her portfolio knowing the interview is over and somehow I'm disappointed.
That's new.
"So, what's the verdict?" she asks.
I almost smile. Most applicants dance around the question.
She attacks it directly.
"I haven't decided."
"Liar." Her eyes widen as the word slips out before she can stop it.
A laugh nearly escapes me.
Maci Hart walks toward the door, but halfway, she glances back.
"You're going to hire me."
I should probably be offended by that. Instead, I find myself fighting the urge to smile.
Not because she's wrong.
Because she knows she's not.
She isn't trying to impress me, in fact other CEO’s might be offended but it’s a rare trait that she’s certain of her own value.
Before I can answer, she disappears through the doorway.
The office falls silent. Yet somehow it feels less quiet than it did an hour ago. I stare at the closed door longer than necessary before finally looking back at my notes.
Unfortunately, every other item on today's schedule suddenly seems significantly less interesting.
Finally, Dara appears. "Well?"
I look down at the notes from the interview, pages of them. More notes than I've taken on any candidate in years.
I don't answer immediately, but something about Maci Hart feels familiar.
Not enough to identify.
Just enough to linger.
Like a puzzle piece from the wrong box.
It’s possible because she thinks the same way as I do.
And for the first time in three months, the thought of a missing pen pal isn't the last thing on my mind.
It's Maci.