Chapter Three: No Room to Breathe

The Aurielle Group building didn’t feel welcoming. It felt like a test even before Luca stepped inside.

Glass walls rose high above him, reflecting a version of himself he barely recognized—tired eyes, cheap shoes, a camera bag that had seen better days. He took a breath and walked in.

Inside, everything moved fast. Phones rang. Heels clicked. People spoke in low, confident voices. Luca waited on a hard chair, watching the second hand of the clock crawl forward. Two weeks. That thought refused to leave him.

The interview was nothing like he imagined.

No warm introduction. No encouragement.

They asked questions quickly—about his course, his grades, his work experience. Then they stopped asking and started testing. One of them opened a laptop and pushed it toward him.

“Fix this,” the man said, showing him a poorly edited photograph.

Luca’s fingers moved almost on instinct. He adjusted contrast, corrected shadows, softened the harsh light. He explained what he was doing as he worked—not to impress, but because that was how his mind functioned. When he finished, the room went quiet.

Still, no reaction.

Finally, a woman spoke. “One-week trial. Sixteen-hour days if needed. No fixed role. If you fail, you leave.”

“I won’t fail,” Luca said, surprising even himself.

They exchanged looks.

“Be here tomorrow at seven,” she said. “If you’re late, don’t bother coming.”

Outside the building, Luca leaned against the wall for a moment. His legs felt weak. This wasn’t safety. This was a gamble.

At the hospital, his grandmother was awake, her thin fingers resting on the blanket. She smiled when she saw him.

“You look tired,” she said softly.

“I’m okay,” Luca replied. He sat beside her, holding her hand. He wanted to tell her everything—how scared he was, how uncertain tomorrow felt—but he didn’t. She had given him strength his whole life. He wouldn’t let her worry now.

That night, numbers haunted him. Bills. Medicines. Rent. Fees. No calculation worked. Something always fell short.

He thought about his finals. One and a half months away. Thought about the camera lying quietly in his bag. Thought about how dreams slowly died—not loudly, but through exhaustion.

Morning came too fast.

At Aurielle, the trial began without warning. Luca was sent from one task to another—holding lights, carrying equipment, editing shots under impossible deadlines. People snapped orders at him. Someone yelled when he made a small mistake. He didn’t argue. He didn’t slow down.

At noon, he skipped lunch.

By evening, his hands ached.

Then came the real test.

A sudden shoot. Bad lighting. No time. The senior photographer was late.

“Can you handle this?” someone asked, half-mocking.

Luca looked at the setup, at the chaos—and nodded.

He adjusted the lights, changed angles, worked fast but carefully. When the shoot ended, silence followed again.

Someone checked the camera screen.

“This… works,” they said quietly.

Luca exhaled for the first time all day.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

A hospital number.