Sadly the same as before

The sleek black sedan sliced through the morning streets, tinted windows blurring the awakening city into streaks of light and shadow. In the back seat, Peter shifted restlessly between Val and Mami, the crisp white Oxford shirt clinging to his skin with a slight untuck at the hem, charcoal chinos gripping his thighs, loafers flexing against the floor mat as if testing for escape. His fingers drummed an erratic rhythm on his knee before diving into his pocket to twist the remote's edges, the cool plastic slipping under his damp palm. Val leaned in closer, her lithe frame brushing his arm with playful warmth, while Mami's voluptuous curves settled against his other side, her hand finding his to still the fidget.

Sweat beaded at Peter's hairline despite the air-conditioned chill, his breath coming in shallow bursts as memories of yesterday's curt dismissal replayed in his mind, clashing with the sharp anticipation of what the remote might unleash today.

Val leaned into Peter's side, her lithe body shifting with that familiar playful nudge, smooth thighs grazing his as fingers intertwined with his empty hand. Gold bangles tinkled like tiny bells when she gave a gentle squeeze. "Ay, Papi, relax," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. "You're gonna crush this. Remember last night? You're a king now—walk in like you own the place." Dark eyes gleamed up at him, alive with spark, and she planted a quick peck on his cheek, coaxing a **** curve to his lips.

From the other side, Mami's voluptuous curves settled in closer, enveloping Peter in a wave of soft warmth that pressed like an unspoken promise, her manicured hand tracing lazy loops across his back. Dark waves of hair brushed his shoulder in a ticklish sweep as she cooed in that throaty accent, "Sí, mi amor, breathe deep." Her palm lingered, steady and reassuring. "This guy's already calling you back—he knows you're worth it. And if he doesn't? You've got us, Vivi's empire, everything. No pressure, just show them the real you." Tension uncoiled just a bit under her touch, though Peter's gaze stayed fixed on the blurring streets outside, his pulse thudding a frantic rhythm in his ears.

Ilona lingered at the store's entrance as the sedan pulled away, her platinum waves catching the light while she lifted a hand in a languid wave, lips curving into that sultry promise: "I'll handle things here." Her wink flashed like a secret spark, etching itself into Peter's thoughts even as the car rounded the corner. Up front, Vivienne claimed the passenger seat, her long fingers already dancing across her phone screen, voice dropping to low murmurs about delayed Vanderbilt Vanderlace shipments and upcoming meetings with suppliers. The towering outline of her frame remained rigid, unswayed by the city's bustle outside. Without glancing back, she leaned toward the driver. "Drop him discreetly, James," she said, her tone clipped yet casual, as if orchestrating shadows to veil any hint of favoritism.

A few streets short of ByteCore's glass facade, the sedan eased into a shadowed side alley, engine humming low amid the quiet hum of early traffic.

Peter drew in a ragged breath, his chest rising and falling unevenly, before pushing the door open and stepping onto the pavement.

From the back seat, Val pursed her lips into an air kiss, dark eyes twinkling. "We'll be right here waiting, Papi—go get 'em, or whatever fun you're plotting."

Beside her, Mami's warm smile bloomed as she nodded, blowing a gentle kiss of her own. "Hurry back, mi rey."

The door clicked shut with a soft thud, leaving the car idling like a patient sentinel, while Peter turned toward the building, crisp morning air nipping at his cheeks, each footfall echoing louder in his ears, resolve sharpening amid the flutter of unease in his veins.

Peter stepped through the revolving doors of ByteCore's lobby, the glass panels whispering shut behind him with a soft pneumatic sigh, sealing in the sterile chill of conditioned air that carried faint notes of coffee and printer ink. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows on the beige carpet dotted with faint coffee stains, while a lone receptionist tapped at her keyboard behind a curved desk, her eyes flicking up briefly before returning to the screen.

Harlan emerged from a side hallway, extending a hand for a grip that clamped firm but brief—his palm clammy, fingers thick and callused. Bald patches gleamed under the lights on his scalp, mid-40s lines etching deeper around his eyes, the rumpled button-down tucked unevenly into slacks that sagged at the knees, his polite nod accompanied by a detached half-smile that didn't quite reach his gaze.

"Peter, good to see you again," Harlan said, voice flat as recycled paper. "Let's head to the conference room—give this another go." He turned without waiting, leading the way down the hallway lined with motivational posters curling at the edges, their faded slogans about teamwork blurring into irrelevance.

Footsteps echoed in sync along the linoleum floor, Peter's loafers scuffing softly against the scuffed surface while Harlan's dress shoes clicked with a hurried rhythm, the sound bouncing off white walls marked by occasional scuffs from rolling chairs. Peter felt the knot in his stomach tighten further, each step amplifying the echo of yesterday's dismissal—the way Harlan had barely looked up from his notes, droning questions like a script read a hundred times.

They pushed through a door into the same bland room as before: a plain oak table scarred with ring stains from forgotten coffee mugs, two mismatched chairs—one with a wobbly leg—positioned opposite each other, and a single window framing the parking lot where cars glinted under the rising sun.

No cameras mounted on the walls, no bustle from other employees; the early hour left the building hushed, privacy wrapping around them like an invisible curtain. Harlan gestured to the seat Peter knew too well, dropping into his own with a creak, pulling out a notepad flipped to a page already half-filled with scribbles.

Harlan cleared his throat, leaning forward just enough to flip through his notes, eyes skimming the paper rather than meeting Peter's, his pen tapping an impatient beat against the table's edge. "Alright, let's dive in," he began, the words rolling out in that same monotonous cadence from before.

"Tell me about your experience with Python—any specific libraries you've worked with?" The question hung there, identical to yesterday's opener, Harlan's gaze darting back to his scribbles mid-sentence, ticking a box with a quick slash. Peter answered, voice steady at first, but as Harlan nodded absently— "Uh-huh, good"—and moved on without follow-up, the pattern repeated: "Walk me through a project you've done, step by step." No probing, no curiosity; just the script unfolding again,

Harlan's tone flat as a deflated tire, his body language screaming disengagement—shoulders slumped, foot jiggling under the table. "Why ByteCore? What draws you here?" The man's eyes flicked to the window briefly, as if mentally already at lunch, checking off mental boxes without a spark of real interest.

Dismay crept through Peter like ice water trickling down his spine, his fingers clenching under the table as realization hit—this wasn't redemption, just another formality, Harlan phoning it in harder than before, the "second chance" a hollow echo. Frustration boiled over in a slow simmer, Peter's free hand dipping into his pocket where the remote waited, cool and solid against his palm, fingers curling around its edges like a lifeline.

The door remained firmly shut behind them, no footsteps echoing in the hallway outside, the room's isolation a perfect veil—no prying eyes, no security lenses glinting from the corners. Harlan droned on, mid-question about team dynamics, when Peter eased the remote out beneath the table's edge, aiming its tip straight at the man's chest.

A subtle thumb press on the 'Imagine' button unleashed the shimmering beam, a golden pulse surging forward to wrap Harlan in its ethereal glow, freezing him mid-word, the light dancing across his rumpled shirt as the transformation began.