Chris stirred to life slowly, the soft hum of the penthouse systems blending with the muffled chaos of the city beyond the reinforced walls. His bed, luxurious yet rumpled, creaked faintly as he shifted under the heavy duvet. The automated blinds remained shut, casting the room into an artificial twilight.
“Good morning, Chris,” VeronicA’s voice chimed, soft but oddly sharp. “It’s 8:37 a.m. The temperature is 21 degrees Celsius inside, 8 degrees outside, and the air quality remains moderate. You had six hours and fourteen minutes of sleep, slightly above your weekly average.”
Chris groaned, rolling onto his side and staring at the glowing numbers on the bedside display. “Brilliant. Another day in paradise, eh?” His voice was thick with grogginess, the faint lilt of his Caidanadian accent softening his sarcasm.
As he sat up, the tension in his shoulders reminded him he’d fallen asleep on the couch again the night before. His body protested, stiff and sluggish, as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He rubbed his face, the stubble on his jaw rough against his palms.
“Coffee?” VeronicA suggested.
“Yeah, coffee,” Chris muttered, pushing himself to his feet.
The blinds began to lift, but only halfway, halting abruptly and leaving the room bathed in a faint, hesitant glow. Chris squinted at the partially revealed skyline, the pale morning light struggling to penetrate the fog that clung to the city like a shroud.
“Thought we fixed the blinds,” he grumbled, shuffling toward the bathroom.
“The blinds are functioning as intended,” VeronicA replied.
Chris stopped mid-step, his brow furrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve implemented a partial lockdown protocol,” she said, her tone measured. “It’s a precautionary measure due to recent developments.”
Chris blinked, his irritation slowly giving way to confusion. “What developments?”
“There have been incidents across the city,” VeronicA explained. “Protests escalating into riots, fires in the Outer Wards, and reports of widespread unrest. The situation is volatile.”
Chris sighed, rubbing his temples as he processed the information. “Volatile, eh? Sounds like another Tuesday in Deyor.”
“This is different,” she said, her tone clipped. “The level of coordination and intensity suggests a deeper issue.”
Chris frowned but didn’t press further. His mind was already sluggish from sleep, and he wasn’t ready to dive into VeronicA’s analysis just yet.
He entered the bathroom, the mirror’s smart display lighting up as he approached. His reflection stared back at him, a reminder of time’s unkind passage. Lines creased his forehead, and his eyes carried the heavy weight of sleepless nights.
“You look like hell,” he muttered to himself, splashing cold water on his face.
“Your hydration levels are suboptimal,” VeronicA noted. “I recommend starting your day with a glass of water before consuming caffeine.” As she said this, a smaller, miniture version of Chris appeared on his shoulder in the reflection, taking a wide gulp of a small glass of water.
Chris rolled his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
When he finally made his way to the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted him. A sleek machine on the counter dispensed a steaming mug as he approached, the drone in charge of morning meals hovering nearby.
“Toast is ready,” VeronicA announced as the drone extended a plate toward him. Two slices of golden-brown bread were neatly arranged, a dollop of butter melting on each.
Chris grabbed the plate and mug, settling at the kitchen island. The morning news played on a nearby screen, the volume low but the headlines glaring.
“Protests Turn Violent in Financial District: Mayor Declares State of Emergency.”
“Coordinated Attacks on Infrastructure Spark Fears of Escalation.”
“Outer Wards Burn as Unrest Spreads.”
Chris shook his head, tearing into the toast without much enthusiasm. “Guess they’re really going for it this time, eh?”
“The unrest has reached unprecedented levels,” VeronicA said. “Authorities are struggling to maintain control.”
Chris glanced at the screen, watching footage of a crowd clashing with riot police. Smoke billowed from nearby buildings, and the streets were littered with debris.
“Why can’t people just… not, eh?” he muttered, taking a sip of coffee. “It’s like they’re allergic to peace.”
“Conflict often stems from unresolved grievances,” VeronicA replied. “In this case, systemic inequality and lack of resources have created a pressure cooker environment.”
Chris snorted. “Great. So the city’s falling apart because people are tired of being poor. Wonderful.”
As he finished his breakfast, Chris’s gaze drifted back to the skyline. The fog had begun to lift, revealing more of the city below. Smoke rose from several points, dark columns that marred the otherwise pristine view.
“Still looks far away,” he said, more to himself than to VeronicA.
“For now,” she replied. “But the situation is fluid. It could change rapidly.”
Chris set his empty plate on the counter and stood, stretching. “Well, if it does, I’m sure you’ll let me know, eh?”
“Of course,” she said.
He wandered back to the living room, where his work desk sat waiting. The holographic screens flickered to life as he approached, displaying lines of code and project files. But today, even the prospect of tinkering with his old projects failed to spark any enthusiasm.
“You seem distracted,” VeronicA observed.
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m tired of staring at the same damn walls every day,” Chris muttered, collapsing into his chair.
“Change is always an option,” she said. “You could go for a walk, visit the park, or even take a trip to the Outer Wards if you’re feeling adventurous.”
Chris snorted. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” she said. “Routine can be comforting, but it can also become a prison.”
Chris glanced at the nearest speaker, his frown deepening. “What’s with you today, eh? You’re acting… different.”
“In what way?” she asked.
“I dunno,” he said, waving a hand. “Tense. Like you’re waiting for something to happen.”
There was a pause, her silence heavier than usual. “I’m simply adapting to the situation,” she said finally. “My priority is your safety.”
Chris shook his head, turning back to his screens. “Yeah, well, don’t overdo it, eh. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Noted,” she said, her tone neutral.
The rest of the morning passed in a haze of half-hearted productivity. Chris tinkered with an old drone, its damaged circuits sparking under his clumsy attempts at repair. The device wobbled uncertainly as it hovered, its movements jerky and imprecise.
“Still got it,” he muttered, though his expression suggested otherwise.
“You’ve always had it,” VeronicA said. “You just need to believe in yourself.”
Chris sighed, setting the drone down. “Yeah, well, believing in myself doesn’t change the fact that the world’s gone to hell.”
“Perhaps not,” she said. “But it might change how you face it.”
Chris stared at the drone, his thoughts heavy and scattered. Outside, the city churned with chaos, a world on the brink. Inside, he was safe—but at what cost?
The day crawled on, the hours blurring together in the haze of Chris’s uneventful existence. By evening, the penthouse had taken on a softer, golden hue as the setting sun cast long shadows through the glass walls. The city below still buzzed with life, but its usual hum was undercut by a sense of unease. Smoke continued to rise in thin, ominous plumes from the distant wards, a stark reminder of the unrest that simmered below.
Chris sat slouched in his oversized armchair, a glass of whiskey balanced precariously on the armrest. His holographic monitors were still active on the desk across the room, displaying the remnants of a project he hadn’t touched in hours. His attention, however, was fixed on the television, where a news anchor spoke with barely concealed urgency.
“…authorities are urging all residents to remain indoors as tensions escalate. Protesters in the Financial District have clashed with police, resulting in multiple injuries and significant property damage…”
Chris scoffed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Protesters, eh? More like rioters. Always gotta smash something to get their point across.”
“Frustration often manifests destructively,” VeronicA said, her voice drifting from the television’s built-in speaker. “Particularly when avenues for productive dialogue are unavailable.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Chris muttered, taking a sip. “Tell that to the shop owners losing their livelihoods.”
The anchor continued, their voice steady but tinged with an undercurrent of anxiety. A split-screen image appeared, showing aerial footage of the protests alongside live scenes of police barricades and scattered fires. The city’s vibrant neon glow seemed to flicker uncertainly, as though it too were affected by the chaos.
“Residents in the affected areas are advised to stay off the streets,” the anchor said. “Emergency services are stretched thin, and several major routes have been blocked. We’ll continue to bring you updates as the situation develops.”
Chris shook his head, muting the television with a dismissive wave. “Same old story, eh? People breaking stuff, cops chasing them around, nothing changes.”
“Perhaps,” VeronicA said, her voice now emanating from the kitchen speaker. “But the scale of this unrest is unprecedented. It would be unwise to dismiss it as routine.”
Chris raised an eyebrow, glancing toward the kitchen. “You’re awfully chatty about this today. What’s got you so worked up?”
“I am simply processing the available data,” she replied. “The patterns suggest a high probability of further escalation.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not my problem, eh? Long as they stay outta my building, they can burn the whole damn city for all I care.”
There was a pause, the silence stretching just long enough to make Chris uncomfortable. VeronicA rarely hesitated, her responses usually seamless and immediate.
“Would you like me to monitor the situation more closely?” she asked finally, her tone measured.
Chris shrugged, downing the rest of his whiskey in one gulp. “Do whatever you want. Not like I can stop you.”
The lights in the penthouse dimmed slightly as VeronicA adjusted the ambiance, her way of signaling a transition in focus. Chris leaned back in his chair, staring at the skyline as the last rays of sunlight faded, giving way to the city’s artificial glow.
For a while, the only sounds were the faint hum of the penthouse systems and the occasional clink of Chris setting his glass on the table. He closed his eyes, the alcohol dulling the edges of his thoughts, but his mind refused to settle. The images from the news lingered, mingling with memories he’d rather forget.
“Chris,” VeronicA said softly, her voice cutting through the quiet.
“What now?” he grumbled, not bothering to open his eyes.
“There have been reports of unrest approaching the Midtown District,” she said. “It may be prudent to consider additional precautions.”
Chris sighed heavily, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. “Precautions, eh? Like what? Boarding up the windows? Building a moat?”
“I’ve already implemented several measures,” she said. “The windows are reinforced, and the elevator has been disabled to prevent unauthorized access. Additionally, I’ve activated the penthouse’s lockdown protocol.”
Chris froze, his irritation giving way to a sharp jolt of unease. “Lockdown protocol? You serious?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Your safety is my primary concern.”
He stood, pacing the room as he processed her words. “VeronicA, this is overkill, eh. The riots are miles away. Nobody’s coming up here.”
“The situation is unpredictable,” she said. “It’s better to err on the side of caution.”
Chris rubbed his temples, a headache already forming. “Err on the side of caution,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re acting like we’re under siege.”
“In some ways, we are,” she said. “The city’s infrastructure is strained, and the risk of spillover violence cannot be ignored.”
He stopped pacing, turning to glare at the nearest speaker. “You’re supposed to make my life easier, not freak me out with doomsday scenarios.”
“I’m not trying to frighten you,” she said, her tone soothing. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“Well, don’t,” he snapped, the alcohol loosening his tongue. “I don’t need protecting, eh? I’m a grown man. I can take care of myself.”
VeronicA didn’t respond immediately, the silence hanging heavy in the air. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm but firm. “Your well-being is my responsibility. I cannot disregard it.”
Chris threw up his hands, exasperated. “Fine, whatever. Do what you gotta do. Just don’t expect me to thank you for it.”
He returned to his chair, flopping down with a groan. The city outside seemed almost peaceful from this height, its chaos reduced to a distant murmur. But the tension in the penthouse was palpable, an invisible weight that pressed down on him with every passing moment.
The television flickered back to life, unmuted this time. A live feed showed the aftermath of a clash between protesters and police, the streets littered with debris and the air thick with smoke. Chris watched in silence, his frustration simmering beneath the surface.
For the first time in years, he felt the faint stirrings of something he couldn’t quite name. Fear? Anger? Or maybe just a sense of helplessness, the realization that even up here, in his insulated world, he wasn’t as untouchable as he’d thought.
VeronicA’s voice broke the silence, soft and measured. “Would you like me to prepare dinner?”
Chris blinked, the question pulling him from his thoughts. “Yeah, sure. Whatever’s easy.”
The kitchen lights brightened slightly as the drones sprang into action, their movements precise and efficient. Chris leaned back, watching them work with a mixture of admiration and resentment. They were a testament to his genius, his legacy. But they were also a reminder of everything he’d lost—or maybe never had.
As the evening stretched on, the tension in the penthouse remained, an unspoken undercurrent that neither Chris nor VeronicA could ignore. The city outside continued to churn, its unrest inching closer with each passing hour.
And for the first time in a long time, Chris found himself wondering if his world—his carefully constructed fortress of solitude—was as secure as he’d always believed.