Level Up
Level Up
Sometimes the secret to leveling up isn’t magic or money—it’s the quiet confidence that holds you together when everything else threatens to unravel.
Okay, so here’s the thing: I’m not usually the kind of person who panics about clothes. I’m a video game developer, not a runway model. My usual uniform is jeans, a hoodie, and the occasional ironic T-shirt. But today? Today is Demo Day. The day I show my game to investors who could make or break my dream studio. The day I become Katherine Bishop, CEO of PixelForge, not Kat-who-forgets-to-do-laundry.
So naturally, I decided to go full chic boss mode. Black sheath dress, sleek blazer, and—because I’m not stupid—a pair of shapewear shorts that promise “seamless elegance.” The kind that makes you feel like you’ve got your life together, even if your fridge currently contains only oat milk and half a jar of salsa.
I’m standing in the bathroom of the coworking space, staring at myself in the mirror, and honestly? I look amazing. Like, Instagram-worthy amazing. My hair is behaving. My eyeliner is symmetrical. My dress fits like it was custom-made. I’m practically glowing with competence.
Until I hear it.
Rrrrip.
I freeze. Slowly, I twist around. There, along the side seam of my dress, is a tiny tear. A tear that wasn’t there five seconds ago. A tear that is now threatening to become a full-blown wardrobe apocalypse.
“No, no, no,” I whisper, as if the dress will listen. “You’re supposed to hold it together. Literally.”
I grab my phone and text my best friend, Jess,
Kat: Emergency. Dress ripping. Send help.
Jess: How bad?
Kat: Like, Titanic bad.
Jess: You’re dramatic. Do you have safety pins?
Kat: Do I look like someone who carries safety pins?
Jess: Fair point. Breathe. You’ve got shapewear, right? That’s basically backup armor.
And she’s right. The shapewear is holding everything in place like a silent superhero. Honestly, if this dress completely gives up, I could probably walk out there in just the shapewear and still look… okay-ish. Chic-ish. Maybe even edgy, if I call it “athleisure couture.”
I take a deep breath. Investors don’t care about dresses. They care about games. And my game? It’s good. It’s really good. It’s called QuestCraft, and it’s all about building worlds with friends—kind of like Minecraft, but with dragons that give motivational speeches. (Don’t laugh. People love dragons.)
I march into the presentation room, blazer strategically angled to hide the tear. The investors are already seated: three men in expensive sneakers and one woman with a haircut so sharp it could slice bread. They look up as I enter, and I swear my heart does a triple backflip.
“Hi, I’m Katherine Bishop,” I say, channeling every ounce of confidence I’ve got. “Thank you for being here.”
The demo starts. My voice is steady, my hands don’t shake, and the game runs flawlessly. The dragons charm everyone. The investors laugh at the jokes I coded in. I’m killing it.
Until I feel it.
The tear. Growing. Like a villain leveling up mid-battle.
I keep talking, smiling like nothing’s wrong, while internally screaming: Please, shapewear, don’t fail me now. And it doesn’t. It holds. It hugs. It says, “Girl, I got you.” Honestly, I could write a love letter to this shapewear.
By the time I finish, the investors are nodding, impressed. One of them even says, “This is brilliant. We’d love to talk funding.” And just like that, I’ve won. Despite the dress. Despite the panic. Despite everything.
I walk out of the room, adrenaline buzzing, and Jess is waiting with a sewing kit she somehow conjured out of thin air. She takes one look at me and grins. “You did it.”
“Yeah,” I say, laughing. “Turns out, the real MVP wasn’t me. It was my shapewear.”
