Page 29 of Push My Buttons
And for the first time in days, the thought doesn't terrify me.
It almost feels like hope.
Chapter 10
Theo
ThemarketingdepartmentatNexus 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 reportis 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 beenspecifically 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.
