Chapter 5
On the submission deadline for the Urban Vision Awards, I worked overtime at the office until three in the morning, finished tweaking the final render, and clicked submit.
Two weeks later, the preliminary results were out. Out of 1,200 entries from across the country, only sixty made the cut.
I found my entry number right there on the list.
Alex was even more hyped than I was. He spammed the group chat with a string of exclamation marks.
Alex: [Susan! You made it! Urban Vision Awards! Top 60!]
Daniel sent a voice message: [Get ready for the semifinals. The company's fully behind you.]
For the semifinals, we had to prepare a fifteen-minute project pitch video, plus a live Q&A session.
I spent two weekends finishing the video, and then got the notice from the organizing committee—the semifinals would be held on April 18th at the City Architecture Association Hall.
On April 18th, when I arrived at the venue to sign in, I saw a name I didn't expect.
On the list of contestants—Emily, number 047.
She had made it to the semifinals, too.
As I was looking at the list, a voice came from behind me.
"Susan?"
I turned around—Emily was standing there with a project board in her hands.
"Wait, you're competing too?" she asked.
"Yeah, I am," I replied.
She gave me a quick once-over and smiled.
"You got this. Honestly, you've only been back for half a year, and this contest is no joke. Making it this far is already pretty awesome," Emily said.
"Thanks," I replied.
"I'm going in to get ready. Catch you later," she said.
She walked off, her heels clicking steadily on the marble floor.
I glanced down at my project board—the old town renovation project I'd poured countless late nights and early mornings into.
For the afternoon Q&A, my slot was ninth, and Emily was up fourth.
While waiting backstage, I watched Emily's Q&A on the live stream. She was presenting a creative commercial district renovation—her project was gorgeous, her slides were polished, and her presentation was smooth.
During the judges' feedback, Simon asked her a question about the feasibility of construction and implementation, and she answered a bit hesitantly.
Then it was my turn.
Standing on stage in front of the five judges, I presented my project—preserving the original street layout of the old town and introducing new functions without tearing down the old buildings.
After my fifteen-minute presentation, Simon was the first to ask a question.
"In your proposal, your approach to the old utility networks is pretty bold. What if you run into unexpected underground structural conflicts?" Simon asked.
"I've built in three levels of contingency plans," I replied.
I flipped to the appendix page.
I said, "Level one: space for rerouting lines is already reserved. Level two: if rerouting isn't feasible, there's a backup option for partial overhead installation.
"Level three: at these three critical nodes, I've marked historical building ratings that allow for modest alterations—all of which are Class C or lower."
Simon nodded and didn't press further.
*****
A week later, the semifinals results were out—sixty contestants had been whittled down to twenty.
I made it.
Emily made it, too.
The day the top twenty list came out, design blogs and industry accounts started profiling the contestants.
The one about me was titled "The Dark Horse Who Returned After a Five-Year Hiatus."
Emily's piece was titled "Rising Star Emily: The Aesthetic Innovator of Commercial Spaces."
I didn't really care about those articles, but Rachel went ahead and posted the one about me on her social media.
That night, I got a text from Andrew.
Andrew: [I saw you're in the design competition.]
I didn't reply.
The next day, he messaged again: [Susan, I didn't expect you to still be doing design. That's pretty cool.]
I just replied with a single word.
Me: [Thanks.]
At some point, he added: [Emily's in the competition, too. Guess you two are competing on the same stage now.]
What was that supposed to mean? Was he comparing us? Showing off? Or did he just find it amusing?
I had zero interest in deciphering it.
I wrote back: [Wish her luck.]
I sent it and closed the chat.
The semifinals prompt was even harder—a real-world renovation plan. The committee assigned an actual abandoned factory site and gave us one month to complete the design.
I went to the site three times, staying until it got dark each time.
The factory's brick walls were covered in dead vines, and the steel frame was rusted, but the skeleton was still intact.
On my third visit, I spotted an old water tower hidden behind some bushes on the east side of the factory.
That water tower gave me a spark of inspiration.
I decided to convert it into a community library—keeping the cylindrical water tower as the core and wrapping it in a transparent glass curtain wall so sunlight could flood in from above.
The library's winding staircase would hug the inside wall of the tower, spiraling all the way up.
On my way home, I started sketching—on the subway, while waiting at red lights, even as I walked, my mind was always running through the dimensions.
Over that month, I refined every single detail of the design until it was bulletproof. Structural calculations, material selection, cost budgeting, construction scheduling—everything was seamlessly integrated.
Alex checked out my semifinal project and just sat there at his desk for ages, not saying a word.
"Susan, this water tower library... honestly, I've been doing this for six years and I've never seen an approach like this," Alex said.
"You're too kind," I replied.
"I'm not flattering you. You turned a derelict structure into a spiritual landmark for the community, and you kept the budget under three million dollars. Any client would weep for joy," he said.
I smiled and kept tweaking the model.
On submission day, I triple-checked the files and hit confirm.
Now it was up to the judges.