Chris’s days had always followed a loose pattern, but lately, they felt more like a prison sentence than a routine. The walls of his penthouse seemed to shrink a little each day, the vibrant view of Deyor’s sprawling skyline turning into a backdrop he barely noticed anymore. The city hummed and susurrated outside, alive with its chaos and noise, but up here, sixty-four floors above the fray, everything was muted. Still. Empty.
A headlined news article that caught his eye as he scrolled his phone, still waking up, “Unrest in the Outer Wards: A Growing Divide.”
The article detailed the growing tensions between Deyor’s wealthier districts and its struggling outer wards, where poverty and crime were rampant. Protests had become a daily occurrence, the people demanding change while the city’s elite turned a blind eye.
Chris skimmed the article, his brow furrowing. He’d spent most of his life in this city, seen its highs and lows. But from his penthouse perch, it all felt so far away.
“You think they’ll ever fix this place?” he asked, glancing at one of VeronicA’s displays.
“Fix it?” she repeated. “That depends on your definition of ‘fix.’”
“You know what I mean,” he said, pushing one of his five hundred dollar pillows into his side. “Make it livable. Fair. A place where people don’t have to fight just to survive.”
“Deyor is a complex system,” VeronicA replied. “Changing it would require more than just good intentions. It would require cooperation, sacrifice, and a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths.”
Chris snorted. “Sounds like a tall order, eh? People don’t like uncomfortable truths.”
“No,” she agreed. “They don’t.”
Chris shuffled into the kitchen, his stomach growling faintly, a low, insistent reminder of his neglected morning routine. His usual breakfast sat waiting for him on the counter: two slices of dry toast, slightly over-toasted but edible, and a mug of black coffee. He hadn’t made it. VeronicA had. Or rather, the drones that flew around the house had at VeronicA’s instruction. But it was missing something. Eggs. His coffee and toast always had eggs, two exactly.
The cleaning bots had been busy overnight, the floor spotless and the counters clear, but the air still carried the faint hint of stale food and grease.
“You’re up late again,” her voice chimed, warm and nonjudgmental. “You’ve been averaging only five hours of sleep lately.”
Chris grunted, grabbing the mug and taking a sip. It was strong, bitter, and exactly the way he liked it. “Five hours is plenty. Plenty enough to hate the other nineteen.”
“Studies show insufficient sleep can lead to irritability,” VeronicA said, her tone playfully clinical. “And you, my dear Chris, are already plenty irritable.”
“Yeah, well, your studies can shove it, eh?” he muttered, biting into the toast. The dry crumbs stuck in his throat, and he coughed, chasing them down with coffee. “Where’s the eggs?”
“You consumed the last one two days ago,” VeronicA replied. “Would you like me to order more?”
“Nah, don’t bother.” He quickly downed the rest of his coffee, leaving the mess on the counter and looked out the large walls of windows. The sound of rain pelting against the thick glass as a storm had rolled in overneight, draping the city in a dreary gray haze. Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, a muted threat. “VeronicA,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Turn up the heat, will ya?”
“Temperature adjustment initiated,” her voice replied softly, the vents in the ceiling humming to life. Warm air spilled into the room, banishing the cold in seconds. “Did you sleep well, Chris?”
“Like a rock,” he muttered, though the dark circles under his eyes told another story. His sarcasm was likely placed from knowing that she could read his vitals and knew the answer already. He gave a large stretch, blinking blearily at the window. The city below was barely visible through the rain-streaked glass, a blur of lights and motion.
VeronicA didn’t respond immediately, which was her way of giving him space. He appreciated that about her—her silences never felt empty. It was like having someone who knew when to talk and when to let the quiet do the heavy lifting. But today, even her silence felt like a spotlight.
He spent the next hour in his office, surrounded by the clutter of his past life. Stacks of old hard drives and disks cluttered the shelves, relics of a time when his name had been synonymous with innovation. Now they were nothing but dust collectors.
The holographic monitors flickered to life as he sat down, their glow illuminating his unshaven face. Lines of code filled the screens, remnants of a project he’d abandoned years ago. It was a simulation game he’d started after Sylvia’s death, something meant to occupy his mind and give him purpose. But like so many of his endeavors, it had fizzled out, buried under the weight of his own self-doubt. A tangle of lines and commands that once would have been second nature to him. Now, it felt like staring at an alien language.
“You’re staring at it again,” VeronicA’s voice piped up from the desk speaker.
“Yeah,” he said, not bothering to deny it. “It’s like looking at a half-finished painting, eh? You can see what it could’ve been, but all you really see is where you gave up.”
“You could finish it,” she suggested. “You’ve been talking about getting back to it for months.”
Chris scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “What’s the point? Ain’t like anyone’s waiting for it.”
“I’m waiting,” VeronicA said, her tone soft but firm. “You promised me once you’d finish it. For yourself.”
Chris closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I ain’t got it in me, VeronicA. Not anymore.”
“You might surprise yourself,” she said. “You used to say the same thing about me, remember? And yet, here I am.”
He chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. “Yeah, and look how that turned out. Stuck in a penthouse, talking to my own damn creation like it’s the only thing keeping me sane.”
“Maybe it is,” she said, unflinching. “And maybe that’s okay.”
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of aimless activity. Chris tinkered with one of his old drones, its casing cracked and its internal wiring a mess. He managed to get it running, though it wobbled uncertainly as it zipped around the room.
“Still got it,” he muttered, almost having become a catchphrase of his lately, watching the drone hover near the ceiling.
“You’ve always had it,” VeronicA said, a hint of warmth in her tone. “You just need to believe in yourself.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving her off. “Save the motivational speeches for someone who cares, eh?”
But despite his gruff response, her words lingered in his mind. For all her quirks and programmed charm, VeronicA had a way of cutting through his defenses. Sometimes.
Lunch came and went, a half-hearted sandwich and another mug of coffee. The drones swayed around him, tidying up the mess he left in his wake. One of them hovered near the coffee table, its mechanical arm reaching out to pick up the crumbs he’d scattered.
“Y’ever wonder why I don’t just let this place go to hell?” he asked, watching the drone work.
“I wonder about a lot of things,” VeronicA replied, her voice coming from the kitchen speaker. “But I think I know the answer to that one,” now escaping from the furnace under the wall for the TV in the living room.
“Yeah? What’s your theory, then?”
“You don’t want to admit it, but you care about this place. It’s a mess, but it’s your mess. And deep down, you still think you can fix it.”
Chris snorted, shaking his head. “You’re wrong, eh. I just keep it clean ‘cause you nag me.”
“If that’s what you want to believe,” she said, her tone playful.
By mid-afternoon, the rain had stopped completely, the city bathed in a pale, washed-out light. Chris had moved to the living room, where he alternated between scrolling through news feeds and staring at the city below, neither holding his attention for long. The glass walls offered a panoramic view of Deyor, a sea of skyscrapers and neon lights that stretched as far as the eye could see. Zip-line trolleys gently floated between buildings like factory belts, and the streets teemed with people who all seemed to have somewhere to be.
He envied them, even if he wouldn’t admit it. The noise, the chaos, the constant movement—it all seemed so pointless from up here, but at least it was alive.
“Anything interesting in the news?” VeronicA asked.
“Just the usual, eh? Politics, scandals, celebrities divorcing each other. Same ol’ crap.”
“There’s a report about the new neural interface tech,” she said. “They’ve made significant strides in direct brain-to-computer interaction.”
“Yeah? So what, people can argue with their toasters now?”
“Or design entire worlds with a single thought,” she countered. “It’s the kind of thing you used to dream about.”
Chris sighed, tossing his tablet onto the coffee table. “Yeah, well, dreaming’s for people with something to wake up to.” After a brief pause, he gave a snort and questioned, more out of habit than genuine curiousity. “Any messages?”
“Three,” VeronicA replied. “One from your financial advisor regarding last month’s royalties, one promotional email for a new luxury vehicle, and one from a—” she paused, her tone shifting slightly—“Jessica Garvin.”
Chris froze, some energy drink he couldn’t pronounce halfway to his lips. “Ness?”
“Yes,” VeronicA said carefully. “Your daughter.”
Chris set the drink down, the liquid a neon purple, fizzing aggressively, his hand shaking slightly. He hadn’t heard from Jessica in years—not since the funeral. His mind raced, a thousand scenarios playing out at once. What could she possibly want? Why now?
“Play it,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended.
The air shimmered, and Jessica’s voice filled the room, clipped and businesslike. “Dad, it’s Jessica.. Your daughter. I need to talk to you about something. It’s important. Call me back when you get this.”
The message ended abruptly, leaving Chris staring at the empty space where his daughter’s words had been.
“Well,” VeronicA said, her voice breaking the silence, “that’s unexpected.”
“No kidding,” Chris muttered. He ran a hand through his hair, now greasy and unkempt. “Important, huh? Bet she needs money.”
“Perhaps,” VeronicA said diplomatically. “Or perhaps she simply wants to reconnect.”
Chris snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, sure. Jessica doesn’t ‘reconnect.’ She’s all business, just like her mom.”
He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. The mention of his late wife brought a wave of guilt and sadness, the familiar ache he’d never quite learned to live with. He sighed heavily, sinking into his chair.
“What should I do, eh?” he asked, more to himself than to VeronicA. “Call her back? Pretend I didn’t hear it?”
“That’s up to you,” she replied gently. “But ignoring it might only make things worse.”
He stared at the blinking cursor on the display, his finger hovering over the call icon. Memories of Jessica and Marcus flashed through his mind—birthday parties, awkward family dinners, the shouting matches when the kids had been teenagers. Jessica had always been distant, more focused on her own goals than her family. But she was still Chris’s daughter.
With a deep breath, Chris tapped the icon. The display blinked, a dialing tone filling the room. He waited, each second stretching into an eternity.
The call went to voicemail.
Chris stared at the screen, his frustration mingling with relief. “Figures,” he muttered, ending the call. “She wants me to call, then doesn’t pick up. Typical.”
“Would you like me to remind you to try again later?” VeronicA asked.
“Nah, don’t bother.” He stood, pacing the room. “She’ll call back if it’s really important.”
As he moved, his gaze drifted to the window. The rain had eased, the cityscape coming into sharper focus. From this height, the streets looked almost peaceful, the chaos and noise muted by distance. But Chris knew better. He’d seen enough news reports to know what really went on down there.
“Anything interesting happening in the city?” he asked, trying to change the subject.
“Several protests are scheduled for today,” VeronicA replied. “One near the financial district, another outside the mayor’s residence. Traffic is heavier than usual.”
Chris grunted, leaning against the glass. “Protests, huh? What’re they mad about this time?”
“Economic inequality, primarily,” VeronicA said. “And recent corporate layoffs. Racial tensions have also been on the rise in the city.”
Chris chuckled darkly. “Same old song and dance, eh? Not like it’ll change anything. Those under the boot will stay there, while those in the boot will simply pass the shoe to their kids.”
As the afternoon wore on, Chris found himself pacing again, his thoughts circling back to Jessica. He replayed the message in his head, analyzing every word, every pause. Was it really about money? Or was there something more?
“Why’s she gotta be so cryptic, eh?” Chris muttered. “Just say what you mean.”
“Perhaps she’s unsure how to approach you,” VeronicA offered. “Reconnecting can be difficult.”
Chris sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, she could’ve tried before now. It’s been years, eh? Not like I’m hard to find.”
“Sometimes, people need time,” she said gently. “Even if it doesn’t make sense to us.”
Chris didn’t reply. Instead, he returned to the couch, the weight of the day pressing down on him. The screen flickered to life, displaying a peaceful forest scene.
“Figured you’d want this,” VeronicA said.
“Yeah,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “Thanks, VeronicA.”
“You’re welcome, Chris,” she replied, her voice soft and steady. “I’ll always be here.”
For a moment, Chris allowed himself to believe it. The loneliness had settled in, heavy as the smog that blanketed the city. Sitting by the window, nursing a glass of whiskey and staring out at the lights below. The city never slept, but it felt like he did nothing but.
“Play some music, eh?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“What would you like to hear?” VeronicA asked.
“Surprise me.”
A soft melody filled the room, the kind of haunting piano piece that tugged at memories he’d rather forget. He closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him. It was beautiful, but it also hurt, like a wound being prodded.
“You’re a real piece of work, y’know that?” he muttered.
“Care to elaborate?” she asked.
“Sometimes it feels like you know me better than I know myself. Like you’re in my head.”
“In a way, I am,” she said. “I’ve spent years learning everything about you, Chris. Your habits, your likes and dislikes, your fears. It’s my job to understand you.”
“Yeah, but it ain’t fair, eh. You know everything about me, but I don’t know a damn thing about you.”
“You developed me. You know everything about me.” VeronicA replied with a playful pitch. “I’m an open book,” she said. “Ask me anything.”
Chris opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. What was there to ask? She wasn’t a person—she was a program, a collection of data and algorithms designed to mimic humanity. To mimic him, his wife. And yet, she felt more real to him than most people ever had.
“Forget it,” he said finally, draining his glass. “Play something else.”
The music shifted to a softer tune, one he recognized but couldn’t place. He leaned back in his chair, the room spinning faintly from the alcohol.
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” VeronicA said, her voice low. “I’m here. For as long as you need me.”
Chris closed his eyes, a single tear slipping down his cheek. He didn’t respond.
There was nothing left to say.