Page 2 of The Authenticity Clause
Expert-level proficiency with the full Adobe Creative Suite.
Demonstrable portfolio of successful, data-driven campaigns.
Leo looked at his own resume, open in another tab. It listed "Proficient in Adobe Photoshop" and "Designed promotional flyers for The Daily Grind cafe (and got free muffins)." He had approximately zero years of experience in whatever a "digital strategist" was. He should have closed the tab. He should have gone back to the sensible, soul-crushing data entry jobs.
But his gaze drifted around his apartment—at the vibrant, beautiful, monetarily-worthless chaos he had built. He thought of his mother’s worried voice, of the condescending smirk of Mr. Henderson, of the terrifyingly low number in his bank account.
What’s the worst that could happen?
It was a dangerous question, the kind that usually preceded a story that ended with, "and that's why I'm no longer allowed in that state."
With a surge of what could only be described as catastrophic optimism, he started typing. This wasn't a lie. This was creative non-fiction. An interpretive dance of his professional history.
"Proficient in Adobe Photoshop" blossomed into"Digital Experience Artisan & Brand Synergist with demonstrated expertise in visual storytelling across the Adobe Creative Suite."
"Designed promotional flyers for The Daily Grind cafe" was reborn as"Orchestrated multi-platform digital engagement campaigns for local businesses, resulting in a quantifiable increase in customer conversion."(The muffins were delicious, which he counted as a successful conversion.)
He invented a freelance career, creating a portfolio of "passion projects" that sounded suspiciously like real campaigns for brands he admired. He sprinkled in words like "ideation," "wireframing," and "agile methodology," which he had just learned from a five-minute YouTube video.
The resume in front of him was a work of art. A beautiful, shimmering, and utterly fraudulent masterpiece. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror andadrenaline. This was either the dumbest or most brilliant thing he had ever done.
He attached the file. He typed out a cover letter so full of confidence and corporate buzzwords that he almost believed it himself. His cursor hovered over the "Submit Application" button. For a full ten seconds, he just stared, his reflection a pale, wide-eyed ghost on the screen.
Then, with a sharp exhale, he clicked.
The screen refreshed.'Thank you for your application.'
It was done. He leaned back in his chair, a slow, giddy laugh bubbling up from his chest. He wasn’t thinking about the inevitable rejection, or the astronomical odds against him. He wasn't thinking about the consequences. For the first time in weeks, the low-level hum of anxiety had been replaced by something else.
It was a wild, terrifying, and utterly reckless spark of hope. And for now, it was enough.
Chapter 2: An Anomaly in the Data
Julian Thorne’s world was built on a foundation of clean lines, right angles, and the serene, logical beauty of negative space. His office was a testament to this faith. The surface of his slate-gray desk was a masterclass in minimalism: a sleek laptop, a single black Moleskine notebook aligned perfectly parallel to the desk’s edge, and a row of four identical pens, their tips all pointing west. Even the light from the floor-to-ceiling window seemed to fall in neat, orderly rectangles across the polished concrete floor.
This control was not a preference; it was a necessity. It was how Julian managed the relentless chaos of a world that refused to adhere to his standards. A world that, at present, was trying to invade his sanctuary in the form of a digital stack of resumes.
He dragged another file into the virtual trash can, the softswooshfrom his speakers the only satisfying sound he’d heard all morning. He was searching for a Digital Experience Designer, a role that required a rare fusion of artistic intuition and cold, hard data analysis. What he was getting was a parade of mediocrity.
His office door opened without a knock. Only one person at Vance & Sterling Creative had that privilege.
"Judging by the thundercloud over your head, I’m guessing the talent pool is less ‘Olympic swimming’ and more ‘sad, inflatable kiddie pool’?" Sarah Vance, his partner and the 'Vance' to his 'Sterling', leaned against the doorframe. She was a whirlwind of creative energy wrapped in an impeccably tailored suit, the only person whose brand of chaos Julian could tolerate.
"It's a puddle, Sarah," Julian said without looking up from his screen. "A shallow, stagnant puddle full of buzzwords and questionable font choices. I just reviewed a portfolio that used Comic Sans. Unironically."
Sarah winced theatrically. "An unforgivable sin. What about the one with the MIT degree?"
"His user interface looked like a spreadsheet from 1998 had a baby with a slot machine. All the credentials in the world can’t compensate for a fundamental lack of taste." Julian finally swiveled his chair to face her, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We need someone who can innovate, not just iterate. The Northwind account is stalled because we’re thinking in straight lines. We need a curve. A spiral. Something."
"Something disruptive," Sarah supplied, her eyes gleaming. She loved the word ‘disruptive’. To Julian, it just sounded messy.
