You Are Not the Signal - Part 3
Missed the first note of the siren’s song? Or need a refresher? Go back to part 1:
The night before my interview, I gave up on trying to find out as much information about Harmonia Global as I could. I almost wanted to give up on the whole thing by then. I had spent countless hours glazing over state filings and incorporation docs, property records, and public documents of secured loans. They owned several patents, particularly for their noise-canceling algorithms, and buildings in different pockets of Richmond, but there was nothing out of the ordinary anywhere, not even a single negative review on Glassdoor or Reddit.
Harmonia was a private company and Callista Vale was just as private of a person. I wanted to know more about her. Yet all I could find out was that she majored in engineering at Virginia Tech and then went on to found Harmonia.
What if this wasn’t even her on the recording?
I picked up the phone to call Liam. I needed a fresh perspective. It wasn’t until I got his voicemail that I remembered he was dead. A shiver ran through my body. I set my phone back down.
Other than my parents, I hadn't told anyone my best friend had died. It was the kind of news I would share with my best friend. But now? Who was I supposed to call?
My apartment suddenly felt spartan and desperately needed more things in it to feel livable, like a dog or a girlfriend. A plant even. I turned the television on just to have something other than my thoughts looping, something to distract me from feeling the walls of my apartment close in. A velvety voice floated from the television as a bright kitchen settled onto the screen that looked unnaturally white, clinical even. A family smiled just a little too widely:
“You are the conductor of calm. The serenity sous-chef. The harmonious hand behind every hunger solved.”
The scene cut to the dad opening a delivery bag as if he had just won the lottery and passed off gleaming fruits and vegetables to the mom, who arranged them perfectly in the refrigerator that hummed softly.
“At H.M., we don’t just deliver groceries—we deliver rhythm. Precision. Peace.”
A series of quick shots followed: a mother smiled as she sliced an apple, a toddler clapped in perfect sync with the ding of a microwave.
“Because mealtime should never feel like madness. It should feel…in tune.”
The final shot was the idyllic family sitting together for dinner as the voice ended with: “Harmonia Market. Eat well. Live in tune.”
I recognized the voice immediately. I will never forget what Callista Vale sounded like.
Harmonia’s HQ was downtown, not far from RTD’s office. I’d passed the tuning-fork-shaped glass tower a hundred times on my way to work, always with a flicker of civic pride. They made top-tier electronics. My TV at home? Harmonia, of course.
During the fifteen-minute walk, I spotted countless people with Harmonia swag: messenger bags, hats, bumper stickers. It's funny the stories we let seep into our lives unaware. And how those things will reveal themselves once you stop to see what's been there all along.
The glass doors to Harmonia slid open without a sound. No rush of air, no chime. Just the sense that something had noticed me and approved my entrance.
The floor was a grid of matte white stone, subtly warmed from below. The walls curved inward as if guiding me without signs to the receptionist. Everything glowed, but nothing seemed to emit light.
Somewhere overhead, music played, a loop of something I couldn’t name but felt like I’d heard in a dream I forgot the moment I woke up.
“Hi, I’m Nico—”
“Of course, Mr. Trinh.” The woman in slate-gray confirmed behind a low slab of quartz that was her command station. She didn't look up right away. “You’ve got a 3 pm with Callista herself. You must be excited!”
When she did look up, she adjusted the AirPods she had in her ears and smiled like she already knew my last three internet searches. Which I really hoped not.
She gestured to the extended bench behind me, but I barely had time to make contact with it before I was whisked off.
“I’m so happy you’re here early,” said the man who appeared beside me. Something about his gait reminded me of a ferret. “You wouldn’t believe the number of people who think they can just show up late.”
He was already a good ten steps ahead of me as he bounced those words behind him like skipping stones. I got the impression he would have soldiered on without me had I not jogged to the elevator before the doors shut.
“Does everybody have to wear those AirPods?” I asked when I noticed them in his ears too.
“They're not mandatory. But honestly? I couldn't imagine not wearing them. They make everything so much easier. Hands-free and I stay in sync with everyone else. Besides, I don't like how taking them off feels.”
On the elevator ride up, he gave me the briefing. “You’ll get thirty minutes with Callista. At exactly 3:30 pm, you'll hear a beep in the interviewing room. That’s your cue to wrap up, and the more prompt you are about it, the better.”
“What if we go over? I mean, we’ve got a lot to cover. Surprisingly, this is her first profile with a major news outlet.”
He smiled away the question. That same polite, hollow expression the receptionist had that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “3:30.”
He gestured to the beverage station as we stepped onto the executive floor. “Would you like something to drink?”
“A glass of water, please. Tap’s fine.”
It was not. The station gleamed with an espresso machine the size of a small car, a fridge with more types of water than I thought were available on Earth, and snacks for days.
My stomach grumbled at seeing a glossy package of shrimp chips with no English on them—real ones, the kind my aunt used to fry in a wok until the whole kitchen smelled like the sea. Not the sanitized, baked puffs I usually passed in the store.
Even the snacks here knew how to behave.
“Nice setup,” I remarked.
“It’s wonderful! There’s a movie theater, fitness studio, clinic, and kitchen. Even a nail salon,” he said, carefully passing me a glass of tap water like it was something dead and unhealthy. “To be honest, I wonder why anyone ever leaves. But really, you don’t have to. There are showers. Accommodations.”
“C’mon, no workplace is perfect. This place must have a few skeletons. There’s always something to complain about, right?”
“Nothing I can think of.”
He turned his body toward a hallway. “Now, if I were you, I would make sure to use the restroom before my meeting so as not to waste any time. Also, there are some lux toiletries you look like you could make use of it.”
I blinked.
He smiled.
It wasn’t until I walked away that the insinuation settled in.
Of course the bathroom was immaculate. Of course the soap and lotion was some premium Japanese brand. Of course. But none of this would hide the late nights I had been having, so take that sassy assistant with the prim hair and tailored clothing.
I avoided the mirror as I washed up. Partly because it was easier to pretend that I wasn’t running on caffeine and denial if I glazed over the dark patches under my eyes. Partly because my phone buzzed with a text from Pyra: Stop by the store ASAP. That audio file is no joke.
I texted her back that I was at Harmonia Global and would swing by after. We used to add dumb emojis or weird sign-offs. Not today. Just a straight line from me to her.
I silenced the phone, splashed water on my face, and told myself I looked fine. Although I probably didn’t look it, I was going to find the secret behind this company. People here were too devoted. Too happy.
Callista’s assistant met me outside the restroom and escorted me down a quiet corridor. We stopped at one of many identical-looking doors. Inside was a circular room, windowless and upholstered in pale acoustic foam. It looked like a meditation chamber designed by a Scandinavian cult. The air smelled faintly of citrus. Bergamot? Yuzu? Something clean and soft and engineered to linger.
The assistant motioned to one of the two chairs facing one another. “And remember, what does the beep mean?”
“That the interview is over,” I replied obediently.
“Excellent. Callista will be with you in five.” He left. And I waited ten seconds before I poked my head out the door to an empty hallway.
I waited a couple more beats before I shuffled along the corridor, peeking in various rooms.
If I could just find someone not part of this orchestration, someone real. But most of the doors led to empty conference rooms. One opened to a wall-sized display of various metrics, shifting graphs with labels like “Harmony Quotient,” “Signal Saturation,” and “Echo Drift.”
They didn't make sense to me, but I took a picture for reference.
“What are you doing?” a voice asked behind me.
Bring the myth home and shop our legendary merch inspired by Greek mythology: