Chapter 1
The email arrived at 9:17 AM on a Tuesday. Julian saw the notification flash on his laptop screen and felt the familiar, cold knot of dread in his stomach. The subject line was stark:
Regarding Your Internship Mentorship Application.
He’d told everyone it didn’t matter. He smiled, he shrugged. But the email pulled the truth back to the surface. He had come in second, and he still couldn’t forgive himself for it. His design for the new Montreal symphony hall had been good, brilliant even. He’d bled over it, forgoing sleep and skipping his girlfriend Alice’s calls until she’d texted him a single, sad-faced emoji.
The first-place design, by a talented student named Chloe, was a masterpiece of provocative asymmetry. It was the kind of design that evoked a response, whether you wanted to or not. It was the work of an artist. Julian had stood before the presentation boards in the gallery, his own pristine, elegant plans feeling like a polite apology next to her violent, beautiful statement. He knew that the mentorship with the renowned architect Andre Silva was traditionally given to the competition winner.
He took a deep breath, the air in his small McGill apartment stale with the scent of coffee and anxiety. He clicked the email.
Dear Mr. Pereira,
It is with great interest that I write to you regarding your submission for the symposium hall competition. While the jury has selected a winner for the official prize, I found your approach to spatial flow and material honesty to be particularly compelling. I would like to invite you to my office this Friday to discuss a different opportunity.
I am selecting one final-year student for a direct, intensive mentorship under my personal tutelage at Silva & Arc. I believe you possess a raw potential that requires a more… specific kind of guidance than what our standard programs offer. If you are interested, please confirm.
Sincerely,
Andre Silva
Julian read it three times. Then a fourth. His heart was a frantic bird beating against his ribs. This wasn't just any internship; this was THE internship. The one that forged careers. The one that was an urban legend among the architecture students at McGill. Andre Silva didn’t just teach you; he remade you. His last two students were now respected names in the industry.
But… why him? He came in second. The email was a masterpiece of professional non-answers, praising his "spatial flow" while pointedly ignoring the fact that his design had lost. The phrase "specific kind of guidance" hung in the air, ominous and strangely thrilling.
He called his mom. It was an instinct, a reflex as ingrained as breathing.
"Hey, honey," she answered, her voice warm and familiar from 3,000 miles away. "How's my brilliant boy?"
"I got it," he said, the words tumbling out before he could process them. "The mentorship with Andre Silva."
A squeal of delight came through the phone. "Oh, Julian, that's wonderful! I knew you could do it! Your father would be so, so proud of you."
The mention of his father, a ghost he barely remembered but whose absence was a constant, low hum in his life, tightened the knot in his stomach. He pushed it away. "Thanks, Mom. I have a meeting on Friday."
"You'll be amazing. Just be your best self. You're so kind and smart, how could anyone not like you?"
He wasn't so sure about that. He hung up and stared at his reflection in the dark screen of his monitor. A handsome young man with a shaggy mullet, glasses perched on his nose. He saw the image everyone else saw: the kind, brilliant, devoted boyfriend and son. The perfect guy. But all he felt was the hollowness inside, the space his father was supposed to fill, the space his faith was supposed to occupy, the space Alice’s love was supposed to soothe.
He texted Alice. Got the Silva internship. Her reply was almost instant. “OMG BABE THATS AMAZING!!! told you! celebrating tonight? ill clear my schedule. i got this one, you deserve a treat so promise me youll actually let me pay this time.”
He should have felt elated. Instead, he just felt a strange, creeping dread, like he was standing at the edge of a cliff and someone had just told him to fly.
The Silva & Arc tower was a blade of dark glass and bronze slicing into the Montreal sky. The lobby was a cathedral of quiet luxury, all polished marble and ambient light that made Julian feel underdressed even in his best blazer. The receptionist, a woman with an unnervingly serene smile. She simply said, "Mr. Silva is expecting you, Mr. Pereira. The top floor."
The elevator ride was silent and smooth. When the doors opened, it wasn't into a bustling office, but into a space that felt more like a private gallery. The floor was a single, open expanse. A handful of architects worked at minimalist desks in the distance, their presence barely a whisper. The air was cool and smelled faintly of lemon and something else… something expensive.
Andre Silva was standing by the wall of windows, his back to the elevator, looking out over the St. Lawrence River. He was taller and broader than he appeared in interviews, his suit a perfect charcoal grey that seemed to absorb the light. He turned as Julian approached, and Julian felt a jolt like an electric current.
Andre Silva’s face was a landscape of commanding authority. His black beard, shot with distinguished threads of white, was trimmed with military precision. His eyes were a dark, piercing brown, and they didn't look at Julian so much as they assessed him, cataloging every detail from his slightly-too-long hair to the fit of his off-the-rack blazer.
"Julian Pereira," he said. His voice was a low, resonant baritone that vibrated in the air between them. He extended a hand. His grip was firm, dry, and lingered a moment too long. "A pleasure to finally meet you in person. Your portfolio was… intriguing."
"Thank you, sir," Julian managed, his own voice sounding thin in the vast space. "I was honored to be considered."
Andre smiled, a gesture that was both warm and distant. "Honored? You should be proud. Your work was clean. Technically proficient. It shows a remarkable work ethic." He gestured toward a sleek black sofa by the window. "Sit. Can I get you a water? Coffee?"
"Just water, please. Thank you."
Andre moved to a small, hidden bar, his movements economical and graceful. "You came in second," he said, his back turned as he retrieved a glass bottle and a crystal tumbler. The statement was not an accusation, but a simple, accepted fact, like noting the weather.
"Yes, sir. Chloe's design was… inspired. It deserved the win."
"Perhaps," Andre said, turning and handing Julian the glass. His fingers brushed against Julian's, a contact that was fleeting yet deliberate. "Inspiration is a powerful fuel. But it burns hot and fast. It lacks… sustainability." He sat opposite Julian, not behind a desk, but in an identical chair, creating a strange, intimate parity. "Your design was different. It was thoughtful. Mature. It considered the community, the long-term maintenance, the human element. It was a building that wanted to serve."
Julian wasn't sure if that was a compliment or a gentle dismissal. "I just try to be practical."
"Practicality is the soul of great architecture," Andre said, his tone earnest. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking with Julian's. "Anyone can draw a shocking shape. It takes a real architect to create a space that lives and breathes with its inhabitants. That takes empathy. It takes a certain… selflessness."
The praise felt intoxicating. Julian felt a warmth spread through his chest, a desperate relief to be seen, to be understood.
"I see a lot of myself in you, Julian," Andre continued, his voice dropping to a more confidential register. "When I was your age, I was also more focused on the 'how' than the 'why'. I was focused on proving I could execute. But execution is just the beginning. The real art is in the vision, in the philosophy. That's what I hope to impart."
He stood and walked over to a massive drafting table in the center of the room, gesturing for Julian to follow. The blueprints on the table were for a private residence, a brutalist fortress of concrete and cantilevered glass that clung to the side of a cliff.
"This is the Cliff House," Andre said, his hand hovering over the plans. "My most personal project. The competition winner would have seen this as a chance to make a statement. I see it as a sanctuary. A place for discipline and focus." He looked at Julian, his eyes unreadable. "I don't choose my apprentices based on who wins a prize. I choose them based on who has the character to endure the process of becoming an artist. It's a much longer, more difficult road."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "I'm offering you the position, Julian. But I want to be clear about what it is. It's not a typical internship. You won't be designing your own projects for some time. You'll be with me. You'll be my second set of eyes. You'll sit in on my meetings, you'll help me refine my models, you'll absorb my process. You'll be a student in the truest sense of the word. It requires patience. And trust."
The offer hung in the air, glittering and irresistible. It was everything he wanted, framed not as a job, but as a sacred mentorship.
"I want it," Julian said, the words coming out stronger than he expected. "More than anything."
A slow, satisfied smile spread across Andre's face. "I thought you might." He picked up a sleek, silver pen from the table. "There is one condition, a small exercise in trust, to begin."
He took Julian's hand. Julian’s breath hitched. Andre gently turned Julian's hand over, exposing the pale skin of his inner wrist. With the cool tip of the pen, Andre wrote a series of seven digits on his skin. It wasn't a phone number. The numbers were too few, too random.
"My personal line," Andre said softly, his gaze fixed on the ink on Julian's wrist. "Not the office. This one. You are not to save it in your phone. You are to memorize it, and then you will wash it off. If you choose to accept this position, you will not call me. You will not text me. You will wait for me to contact you. Do you understand?"
Julian stared at the dark ink on his skin, a stark mark against his own flesh. The request was strange, illogical. But it was also a test. A first step in a process he didn't yet understand.
"Yes," Julian whispered. "I understand."
"Good." Andre’s smile widened. "Go home, Julian. Live your life. Go to your classes, see your girlfriend. And wait. I'll be in touch."
