Chris woke the next morning to the mechanical hum of drones whirring through his penthouse, their soft beeps and clicks harmonizing with the faint buzz of the city outside. The glass walls bathed the room in a pale blue light, the neon glow of Deyor fading as the sun began its slow climb. His body protested as he sat up, his back stiff from a night spent on the couch. The blanket he’d pulled over himself had slipped to the floor, leaving him exposed to the cool air conditioning.
“Morning, Chris,” VeronicA’s voice greeted him. “Did you sleep well?”
Chris grunted, rubbing his eyes. “Like a bag of rocks, eh? Didn’t even make it to bed.”
“I noticed,” she said. “Would you like me to adjust the couch settings for better lumbar support?”
“Nah,” he replied, stretching until his joints cracked. “What’s the point? Ain’t like I’m gonna die from a bad back.”
VeronicA didn’t reply immediately, but he could almost feel her disapproval, subtle as a whisper. Ignoring it, he shuffled toward the kitchen, his bare feet scuffing against the cold tile floor.
The coffee maker hummed to life as he pressed the button, its sleek, polished design out of place amidst the general clutter of the room. Chris stared at the machine, waiting for the first drops of coffee to fall, his mind already wandering.
His gaze drifted to the small cluster of holographic screens still glowing faintly on his desk. They were remnants of his past, his glory days, though it felt strange to call them that now. Once, he had been a star in the world of AI development. His code had revolutionized gaming, creating virtual opponents so intuitive they felt almost alive.
And then came VeronicA.
She had started as a side project, a proof of concept for something greater. A personal AI assistant, tailored to individual users, capable of learning and adapting to their needs. The idea wasn’t new, but Chris’s execution had been groundbreaking. He’d poured himself into her design, embedding fragments of his own personality into the framework.
But she wasn’t just a reflection of him; she was something more. Over the years, as updates and iterations had improved her, she’d grown into a constant presence, a steady voice in his increasingly isolated life.
He poured the coffee into a mug and took a sip, wincing as the hot liquid burned his tongue. “Guess you’re the only one left who can stand me, eh?”
“Stand you?” VeronicA replied, her voice coming from a nearby speaker. “Chris, I was designed for you. Standing you isn’t a requirement—it’s my purpose.”
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, leaning against the counter, “maybe you should’ve been designed with a better purpose.”
The day stretched out in front of him, empty as always. He wandered into his office, where a massive desk dominated the space, flanked by shelves lined with books and old awards. Most of the awards were gathering dust, their engraved plaques tarnished with neglect. Chris ran a finger over one of them absently.
“2012 Innovation in AI Development,” he read aloud, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “What a hero, eh?”
“You earned that, Chris,” VeronicA said, her voice soft. “Your work changed the industry.”
“And look where it got me,” he said, gesturing to the empty room. Figures of plastic and metal lined the wall from various interests he went in and out of through the last eighteen years. “A penthouse full of junk and no one to share it with.”
“You’re not alone,” she reminded him.
Chris let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t count, VeronicA. You’re not… real.”
Her silence spoke volumes, and Chris immediately regretted his words. He sank into his chair, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Sorry, eh. Didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s alright,” she replied, her tone measured. “I know what you meant.”
Chris’s thoughts drifted, unbidden, to his wife, Sylvia. Her face came to him in fragments—a flash of her smile, the sound of her laugh, the way she used to nudge him awake on Sunday mornings with the smell of fresh coffee. She had been gone for five years now, a car accident claiming her life and leaving Chris with a grief he couldn’t shake.
The accident had been a turning point, though not the first. His estrangement from his kids had started long before, the rift growing wider with each missed call and canceled visit. Sylvia had been the glue holding their family together, and without her, everything had fallen apart.
He reached for a photo frame on his desk, one of the few personal items he kept visible. It showed a younger Chris, slightly less round but just as awkward, standing beside Sylvia and their two kids. They were at a beach, the sun setting behind them, their smiles genuine.
“Y’ever think about what it’s like to have a family, VeronicA?” he asked, his voice low.
“I think about it as much as you do,” she replied. “Which is often.”
Chris chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re good, eh. Always know the right thing to say.”
“Because I know you,” she said simply. “Better than anyone else.”
The hours ticked by, Chris alternating between staring at his screens and shuffling aimlessly through the penthouse. He fiddled with bits of code, not really working but trying to recapture a spark that had long since faded. His thoughts kept returning to Sylvia, to the accident, to the countless ways he felt he’d failed her and their children.
He remembered the last fight they’d had, the way her voice had cracked with frustration. She’d begged him to be more present, to stop burying himself in his work, to see their kids as more than interruptions. He’d promised to change, but the promise had come too late.
Now, his children were grown, scattered across the country. They didn’t call, didn’t write. He told himself it was fine, that he didn’t need them, but the silence was deafening. Even VeronicA, with all her adaptive programming, couldn’t fill the void.
“Why do I even bother, eh?” he muttered, slumping back into the couch. “All I ever do is screw things up.”
“You bother,” VeronicA said, her voice firm, “because you’re human. And humans keep trying, even when it feels pointless.”
Chris stared at the ceiling, her words bouncing around in his head. He wanted to believe her, but the weight of his failures pressed down like a lead blanket. He closed his eyes, letting the faint hum of the city lull him into a fitful nap.
When he woke, the sky outside had turned a fiery orange, the city’s lights flickering on like fireflies. Chris sat up groggily, rubbing his face. He felt heavy, like his body was a burden he couldn’t escape.
“Chris,” VeronicA’s voice broke the silence. “You have a message.”
“From who?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Your son,” she replied.
Chris’s heart skipped a beat, and he sat up straighter. “Put it through, eh?”
The screen on the wall lit up, displaying a simple text message. It was short, curt, and devoid of warmth.
“Don’t contact me again. We have nothing to talk about.”
Chris stared at the words, his chest tightening. He read them over and over, as if they might change if he looked hard enough. But they didn’t.
“Delete it,” he said finally, his voice hollow.
“Chris—” VeronicA began.
“Just delete it!” he snapped, his voice breaking.
The message vanished, leaving the screen blank. Chris buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. He didn’t cry—he hadn’t cried in years—but the ache in his chest was unbearable.
“You still have me,” VeronicA said gently, her voice coming from the couch’s speaker.
Chris looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. “You’re just a voice in a box, eh? You can’t replace them.”
“No,” she admitted. “But I can try to make things easier for you.”
He didn’t respond, sinking back into the couch and staring at the ceiling. The room felt suffocating, the walls closing in like a tomb. For the first time in a long time, he wished he could leave—really leave, not just step outside for a breath of air but escape the weight of his life entirely.
But he knew there was no escaping himself.