The conference room was quiet except for the soft tick of Abigail’s stylus against her tablet. Morning light poured through the tall windows, cutting across the oak table in clean, pale rectangles. Holly sat opposite, her notebook open, a doodled coffee cup in the corner of the page. She tapped her pen nervously against her chin until Abigail finally looked up.

  “All right,” Abigail said. “You’ve had a week to think about next steps. What do you have for me?”

  Holly smoothed her cardigan and leaned forward. “Honestly? I think we keep it simple. Really simple. The interviews last month worked because Ariel wasn’t trying to be anything. She was just herself. People connected with that.”

  Abigail arched an eyebrow. “Go on.”

  “We don’t need a big PR machine,” Holly continued. “We don’t need some sprawling campaign or five different threads. What we need is to let people see Ariel the way we see her here—at work. Not rehearsed. Not posed. Just… herself. She’s brilliant, she’s funny, she cares about her team. And when she’s leading, there’s this energy in the room. People should see that.”

  Abigail considered this, her stylus hovering mid-air. “So what are you proposing?”

  “A short series of behind-the-scenes clips. Maybe a handful of photos. Ariel in meetings, joking with her team, sketching ideas on a whiteboard, drinking tea with her feet tucked under her chair. No gloss. No polish. Just glimpses into her world. We make the message clear: game development is tough, sure, but with the right people leading, it can still be fun. Still be human.”

  For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the heating vent. Then Abigail smiled, small and approving. “That’s good. That’s very good. It’s authentic.”

  “That’s all I want it to be,” Holly said. “Authentic.”

  Abigail made a quick note on her tablet. “Set up a meeting with the video team. Keep it light. I don’t want crews with huge cameras in here; just something natural and low-impact. And talk to Ariel. Make sure she’s comfortable being that visible.”

  “She’ll be nervous,” Holly admitted, smiling faintly. “But she’ll say yes. Because it isn’t all about spotlighting her. It’s about showing what she loves: this team. This work.”

  “Exactly,” Abigail said, closing the tablet with a soft click. “If we can capture that, we don’t need anything else.”

  The meeting ended as simply as it had begun. No grand vision, no massive marketing roadmap. Just a single, focused idea: show Ariel and the team as they are and trust that would be enough.

  As Holly gathered her notes and slipped them into her bag, she couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips. She couldn’t wait to tell Ariel that for once, all she had to do was be herself.

  The Pit was alive with its usual buzz of keyboards clicking in syncopated bursts, chairs rolling across the concrete floor, and the low hum of chatter rising and falling like waves. Holly wove her way between desks, greeting a few familiar faces, but her eyes were searching for one in particular.

  She found Ariel not at a workstation but in one of the glass-walled meeting rooms that sat just off the Pit. The door was propped open, and a whiteboard had been stolen from somewhere, its surface already scrawled with bold blue letters:

  IDEA BOARD

  Ariel stood in front of it with a marker still in hand, cheeks flushed, hair escaping its loose tie. She looked so alive Holly had to pause a beat in the doorway just to take her in.

  Holly smirked and leaned her shoulder against the frame. “So,” she said, crossing her arms. “What exactly have you been up to in here, Red?”

  Ariel turned, green eyes bright with the same eager spark Holly loved most. “Okay, hear me out. I thought… wouldn’t it be fun if we had a space where people could write down any idea they had? Doesn’t have to be about Wispwood Haven. It could be about another game, or some goofy mechanic, or even just, like—‘Hey, what if our fridge was always stocked with sparkling water?’”

  She gestured to the board, her movements wide, animated. “The point isn’t to make it into a task or a sprint item. It’s just… a place for ideas to live. Somewhere visible. Somewhere that says, hey, your voice matters, even if it’s silly.”

  Holly walked inside, letting her fingers graze the edge of the board. “So this is… a sandbox for ideas?”

  “Yes!” Ariel said, practically bouncing. “No pressure, no deadlines. Just imagination. If we’re all supposed to be creative, then it should feel like there’s room for the random stuff, too. That’s where the fun is.”

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  Her smile softened then, the excitement giving way to something gentler. “I want people to remember that this is supposed to be fun. That game development doesn’t always have to be about crunch and milestones. Sometimes it’s about laughing at the dumbest possible mechanic you could think of... like… like a boss fight where the enemy is just a giant dumpling.”

  Holly laughed, full and bright, and Ariel’s grin widened at the sound.

  “You’re ridiculous,” Holly teased, “but you’re also kind of brilliant. You think people will actually use it?”

  “They already have,” Ariel said, stepping aside so Holly could see the scribbles that dotted the board in a rainbow of markers. “Jacob came by earlier and wrote, ‘Make a coffee brewing minigame.’ Ravi added ‘dog with fetch mechanic.’ And then someone, I don’t know who, just wrote, ‘Hot tub DLC.’”

  Holly covered her mouth, laughing harder now. “Oh my God.”

  “Exactly,” Ariel said, laughing with her. “It’s not about whether we do these things. It’s about letting the room breathe a little. Reminding everyone that ideas aren’t just precious: they’re playful. And that’s how good ones are born.”

  Holly looked at her fiancée, glowing with excitement in front of a messy board full of silly suggestions, and thought: this is exactly what Abigail meant.

  “Red,” she said softly, “Do you even realize how much you're doing for the culture here?”

  Ariel tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

  Holly stepped closer, her voice low but firm. “You’re making work feel like joy. That’s what everyone’s going to see. Not just a Game Director. Not just someone who survived a fire. But you. This.”

  Ariel blinked, then looked back at the board, almost shy again. “It’s really not that big a deal.”

  “It’s the biggest deal,” Holly said. “And I promise you: this is exactly what the world needs to see.”

  Ariel’s cheeks flushed pink as she ducked her head, but the smile tugging at her lips was unstoppable.

  Holly let the laughter linger between them a moment longer before she slipped her hand into Ariel’s. “Come with me, Red,” she murmured.

  Ariel blinked. “What, now? I’ve got to—” She gestured toward the Pit, where the steady buzz of activity carried on.

  “They’ll survive without you for half an hour,” Holly said firmly, already tugging her toward the hallway. “C’mon. Shared office. Just you and me.”

  Ariel allowed herself to be pulled, a faint blush creeping across her cheeks as she muttered something about being kidnapped in her own studio. But she followed all the same, holding onto Holly’s hand as they weaved between desks.

  Their office was a shelter of silence and comfort, tucked off to the side of the Pit. Ariel and Holly had made it homey: plush cushions on the chairs, an army of plushies on the shelves, various goofy photos of the team on the walls. As the door clicked shut behind them, the noise of the Pit dimmed into a gentle hum.

  Holly turned, still holding both of Ariel’s hands now. “Okay,” she said, her voice carrying that bright edge of excitement. “I need to tell you something.”

  Ariel tilted her head, wary but amused. “That tone usually means you’ve either bought another giant plushie or… you’ve gotten me into trouble.”

  “Neither,” Holly grinned. “This is about you. About work. About the campaign Abigail and I mapped out.”

  Ariel’s eyebrows rose. “So... you have gotten me into trouble...”

  “Okay, yes.” Holly steered her toward the couch, nudging her down until Ariel sat, belly soft against her lap as she sank into the cushions. Holly perched beside her, tucking one leg under herself, and leaned in with conspiratorial energy. “Listen. We’re keeping it simple. No massive marketing webs or five-point plans. Just one goal: show the world exactly what I just saw out there.”

  “The dumpling boss fight?” Ariel deadpanned.

  Holly poked her side. “No, you dork. You. You being yourself. You laughing with the team, lighting up over silly ideas, reminding people why game development is fun. That’s what people need to see. That’s what makes Willowbound special.”

  Ariel blinked, caught off guard by the seriousness beneath Holly’s playful tone. “You really think people want to watch that? Me being… me?”

  “I don’t think it,” Holly said. “I know it. Look at what happened after your interviews last month. Everyone connected with you. Not because you gave polished answers, but because you were honest. You were human. This campaign builds on that. We’ll do short behind-the-scenes clips, some candid photos, maybe a light social push. Nothing scripted. No gloss. Just you at work, showing how a studio can thrive when someone like you is leading.”

  Ariel stared down at her hands, twisting her engagement ring unconsciously. “Holly, I’m not… a brand.”

  “You’re not supposed to be,” Holly said gently. “That’s the point. You’re a person. A leader. Someone who makes this place better by being here. The world doesn’t need another over-polished studio puff piece. They need a reminder that game development can still be joyful because the people behind it are joyful. You show that.”

  Ariel exhaled slowly, the corners of her mouth tugging upward. “When you put it like that… it doesn’t sound so terrifying.”

  “That’s because it isn’t,” Holly assured her. “We’ll keep it small, keep it true. And if anything feels wrong, you say the word and it’s gone. You’re in control of this, Red. Always.”

  For a long moment, Ariel was quiet, her gaze drifting toward the plush in the window: A Junimo she bought to protect her and Holly at work. Then she looked back at Holly, green eyes bright but misty. “You really believe in me this much?”

  Holly leaned closer until their foreheads touched. “More than anything. And soon everyone else will see exactly what I do.”

  Ariel let out a shaky laugh, wiping at her cheek before any tears could fall. “You’re impossible.”

  “I am,” Holly said with a smirk.

  And in that quiet office, with the Pit’s hum just beyond the walls, Ariel believed it—believed that showing herself, just as she was, might actually be enough.