Chapter 1: The Impossible Task

The September morning air carried the crisp promise of autumn as Leo Vance walked across Northwood University's sprawling campus, his worn leather satchel slung over his shoulder and a vintage Canon 5D Mark II hanging around his neck like a badge of honor. At twenty-eight, he had the lean build of someone who lived on coffee and creative passion, his sharp features animated with the kind of excitement he hadn't felt in months.

Today was the day. After years of scraping by on freelance gigs and wedding videos, he was finally stepping into legitimate employment as Northwood University's first-ever dedicated content creator. The position had been posted for months before they'd called him, and Leo suspected he'd gotten it more for his desperation than his credentials. But desperation had a way of making people work harder, and Leo had always been a hard worker.

The marketing department occupied the third floor of the administrative building, a sterile maze of beige cubicles and fluorescent lighting that felt like the antithesis of creativity. Leo found his way to the corner office marked "Karen Sterling - Marketing Manager" and knocked.

"Come in," came a crisp voice from within.

Karen Sterling was exactly what Leo had expected from their brief phone interview: mid-forties, impeccably dressed in a charcoal pantsuit that looked like it had been pressed that morning, and possessed of the kind of tight-lipped smile that suggested permanent dissatisfaction with the world. Her office was a monument to corporate efficiency – color-coded filing systems, multiple monitors displaying spreadsheets, and not a single personal item in sight.

"Leo, wonderful to finally meet you in person," she said, standing to shake his hand. Her grip was firm but cold. "Please, sit. We have a lot to cover on your first day."

Leo settled into the chair across from her desk, his camera bag at his feet. "I'm excited to get started. I've been researching the university's current digital presence, and I think there's tremendous potential to—"

"Yes, well, let's talk about expectations first." Karen's fingers flew across her keyboard, and she turned one of her monitors toward him. A spreadsheet filled the screen, rows upon rows of dates and numbers. "I've prepared a comprehensive KPI framework for your position."

KPIs. Key Performance Indicators. Leo's heart sank a little, but he maintained his enthusiastic expression. "Of course. Metrics are important."

"Indeed they are." Karen's smile grew sharper. "Now, we've calculated that to maximize our digital footprint and engage our target demographics across all platforms, you'll need to produce eighty-five high-quality video pieces over the next twelve months."

Leo blinked. "I'm sorry, did you say eighty-five?"

"Eighty-five," Karen confirmed, clicking through to another tab. "That breaks down to approximately seven videos per month, or roughly 1.6 videos per week. Very manageable when you think about it systematically."

"Karen, I have to ask – what's your definition of 'high-quality' in this context?"

She looked pleased that he'd asked. "Full production value, naturally. Professional lighting, multiple camera angles, original graphics, sound mixing, color correction – the works. We're competing with institutions like Harvard and Stanford for digital engagement. We can't afford to look amateur."

Leo felt something cold settle in his stomach. In his previous life as a freelancer, he'd worked with production teams of five to ten people to create the kind of content she was describing. The math was simple and brutal: even working sixteen-hour days, seven days a week, what she was asking for was physically impossible for one person.

"And the equipment?" he asked carefully.

Karen's expression brightened. "Oh, we've invested significantly. We have a complete setup in the basement storage room. Let me show you."

The basement storage room turned out to be a converted janitor's closet that smelled faintly of industrial cleaner. The "complete setup" consisted of a single tungsten light that probably dated from the Clinton administration, a tripod with one wobbly leg, and a desktop computer running Windows XP.

"There's also this," Karen said proudly, pulling a dusty camcorder from a box. Leo recognized it as a consumer model from 2005 – the kind of camera that had been obsolete when YouTube was founded.

"This is... comprehensive," Leo managed.

"I knew you'd be impressed. The university doesn't spare expense when it comes to quality." Karen checked her watch. "Now, I should mention that we believe strongly in quality over quantity here at Northwood. We'd rather have exceptional work that truly represents our brand than rushed content that diminishes our reputation."

Quality over quantity. The irony was so thick Leo could have cut it with his lens cap. But he needed this job – his savings account was running on fumes, and his landlord had already been remarkably patient about late rent payments.

"I understand completely," he said. "Quality over quantity."

"Excellent. I can see we're going to work well together." Karen's smile was genuine for the first time that morning. "Why don't you spend today getting familiar with the equipment and workspace? Tomorrow we can discuss your first project – a comprehensive video series about our new dormitory complex. The board of trustees is very excited about it."

Leo spent the rest of the morning in the basement, taking inventory and trying not to despair. The tungsten light flickered intermittently, the computer took seven minutes to boot up, and the camcorder's battery was completely dead with no charger in sight. But he'd worked with worse equipment before – barely – and his own gear could fill in the gaps.

By lunch, he'd managed to get the computer running and had started sketching out a workflow that might, with considerable creativity and several minor miracles, allow him to produce something resembling the quality Karen expected. It would mean eighteen-hour days and probably a slow descent into madness, but it was theoretically possible.

He was heading outside for a cigarette break – his one vice and his primary stress management tool – when Karen appeared in the hallway like a shark sensing blood in the water.

"Going somewhere?" she asked, her tone suddenly arctic.

"Just stepping out for a quick break," Leo replied, pulling his cigarette pack from his jacket pocket.

The change in Karen's demeanor was instant and visceral. Her face flushed red, and her eyes narrowed to slits. "You smoke?"

"Yes, though I'm always careful to—"

"You smoke cigarettes." Her voice carried the kind of disgust usually reserved for discussing war crimes.

Leo felt the conversation shift into dangerous territory, though he couldn't understand why. "Yes, but I never smoke indoors, and I always dispose of—"

"I see." Karen's smile returned, but it was different now – predatory. "Well, I suppose we all have our... habits. You should know that Northwood has very strict policies about substance use on campus."

"Tobacco isn't exactly a controlled substance," Leo said carefully.

"Of course not. But we do pride ourselves on maintaining a healthy, professional environment." She paused, her smile growing wider. "I'm sure someone of your... background... understands the importance of making good impressions."

Someone of your background. The phrase hung in the air between them like smoke. Leo understood perfectly. He was the working-class kid with the state school degree, the freelancer who'd never held a "real" job, the outsider who didn't understand how things worked in the ivory tower. And now, apparently, he was also the smoker – the dirty, unprofessional smoker who couldn't be trusted to represent the university's pristine image.

"I understand completely," Leo said, slipping the cigarette pack back into his pocket. "Professionalism is paramount."

"I'm so glad we see eye to eye." Karen's smile was triumphant. "Now, I should probably mention that we'll be conducting regular performance reviews. Monthly, in fact. We want to make sure you're meeting all of our expectations."

Monthly performance reviews for a content creator position. Leo had never heard of such a thing, but he nodded anyway. "That sounds very thorough."

"Oh, we're nothing if not thorough here at Northwood. Quality over quantity, remember?" Karen turned to go, then paused. "Oh, and Leo? I'd recommend reviewing the employee handbook section on campus policies. Very carefully. We wouldn't want any... misunderstandings."

As she walked away, her heels clicking on the linoleum like a countdown timer, Leo felt the first cold touch of real fear. He'd taken this job thinking his biggest challenge would be the impossible workload and ancient equipment. But Karen Sterling had just made it clear that his real challenge would be her.

He thought about the eighty-five videos, the basement closet, the broken equipment, and the monthly performance reviews. He thought about Karen's face when she'd seen his cigarettes, the way she'd said "someone of your background" like it left a bad taste in her mouth.

For the first time since he'd gotten the job, Leo Vance wondered if he'd made a terrible mistake.

But he needed the paycheck. He needed the stability. He needed to prove that a working-class kid with talent could make it in their world.

Even if they were already planning to destroy him.

Leo stubbed out his unlit cigarette on the bottom of his shoe and headed back inside. He had eighty-five videos to figure out how to make, and apparently, a target on his back from day one.

Quality over quantity, he thought grimly.

He was about to find out exactly what that meant at Northwood University.