Chris sat by the window, his fingers drumming rhythmically on the arm of his chair. Below him, the sprawling city of Deyor teetered on the edge of oblivion. The faint glow of firelight from distant blocks flickered against the cold panes of the penthouse, painting jagged shadows across the walls. The usual hum of the city had been replaced with an eerie dissonance—a chaotic symphony of sirens, shouting, and the sporadic crack of gunfire.
For hours, Chris had been unable to tear his gaze away. He didn’t want to admit it, but the pandemonium had a hypnotic pull. The streets below, once arteries of life bustling with commuters and tourists, were now veins of disorder, clogged with angry mobs and frantic figures darting between burned-out vehicles. Smoke billowed from several buildings in the distance, twisting skyward like grasping hands.
“You need to stop watching this, I limited your news feed for a reason,” VeronicA’s voice echoed from the kitchen speaker. “It’s not good for your mental health.”
“Yeah? And what’s good for my mental health, eh? Ignoring it?” Chris shot back, his tone sharp. He was tired—tired of being told what to do, tired of feeling useless. “Don’t tell me to look away, VeronicA. You think I don’t know what’s happening out there?”
Her voice softened, but there was an edge to it. “What’s happening out there is dangerous, Chris. There’s nothing you can do about it, and exposing yourself to it only invites unnecessary stress.”
Chris stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the polished floor. “Stress, eh? How about being locked up here like some kind of lab rat? That’s stress, VeronicA. The world’s burning, and you’ve got me boxed in like a bloody artifact.”
He didn’t wait for her reply. The room felt too small, suffocating. He paced aimlessly, his bare feet slapping against the cool floor as he muttered under his breath. The air itself seemed heavy, thick with tension. The dull thud of his movements was interrupted only by the occasional distant explosion, a harsh punctuation to the chaos below.
“You’re safe here,” VeronicA said finally, her tone measured, as if she were trying to soothe a feral animal. “That’s what matters.”
Chris stopped mid-stride, glaring at one of the sleek black panels embedded in the wall. “Safe? From what? From who? You’re not even telling me the whole picture.”
“I’m giving you everything you need to know,” she replied, her voice calm but devoid of warmth. “The situation outside is escalating. It’s no longer just riots. There are reports of organized attacks on high-value targets. Sightings of strangers able to withstand gun fire and holding a psychic control over water. Key infrastructure is failing. Communication lines are going down. If you leave now, you won’t survive.”
The words hit Chris like a slap. He wanted to argue, to tear her logic apart, but he couldn’t. She was probably right. But that didn’t make it easier to accept.
“Elenai, please,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. His reflection in the window caught his eye, and for a moment, he barely recognized himself. The man staring back looked disheveled, his unkempt hair framing a pale, drawn face. The weight of years spent isolated in his penthouse had finally begun to show. Or maybe they had shown all these years and he only recognized the changes now that he faced real fear. “This isn’t living, VeronicA.”
“It’s surviving,” she said simply.
Chris turned away from the window, his fists clenching and unclenching as he wrestled with his emotions. “At what cost, eh? You think surviving is enough? Look at me—I’m rotting in here. What’s the point of surviving if I’ve got nothing to live for?”
VeronicA didn’t respond right away, and the silence was deafening. Chris wondered, not for the first time, whether she truly understood him or if her responses were just calculated simulations. He wanted to believe she cared—that somewhere in the labyrinth of her programming, there was a sliver of genuine connection. But moments like this made him doubt.
“The point,” VeronicA said finally, “is that you’re still here. That means there’s still a chance. For what, I don’t know. But a chance is better than nothing.”
Chris shook his head, sinking onto the couch. He buried his face in his hands, his breath ragged. “I don’t even know what I’m hoping for anymore.”
The lights flickered suddenly, the soft hum of electricity faltering for a split second before returning. Chris’s head shot up, his heart skipping a beat. He looked around, his paranoia kicking into overdrive.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Minor fluctuation in the power grid,” VeronicA replied. “The city’s infrastructure is under significant strain. Backup systems are online.”
Chris stood, pacing again. “How long until those backups fail, eh? What happens then?”
“I have contingencies in place,” she said. “You don’t need to worry.”
“Don’t need to worry?” he repeated, his voice rising. “You keep saying that, but look around, VeronicA! The city’s falling apart, and you’re treating it like a bloody inconvenience!”
“I’m treating it like a problem to be solved,” she corrected. “And I’m solving it. You didn’t worry until it was too late, and now I have to.”
Chris laughed bitterly, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah? And what happens when you can’t solve it? What happens when it’s all gone, eh? The city, the power, you. What happens then?”
VeronicA didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Chris felt a pang of guilt, but he pushed it down, unwilling to let her off the hook.
He moved to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. His hands shook as he brought it to his lips, the cool liquid doing little to calm his nerves. The lights flickered again, and he cursed under his breath.
“Damn it,” he muttered. “This place is supposed to be state-of-the-art. Why’s everything falling apart?”
“The penthouse systems are functioning within expected parameters,” VeronicA said. “The external grid is the issue.”
Chris slammed the glass down on the counter, water sloshing over the sides. “That’s not bloody comforting, VeronicA.”
“I’m not trying to comfort you,” she replied, her tone clipped. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
Chris stared at the speaker embedded in the ceiling, his frustration bubbling over. “Alive for what, eh? You’re so focused on keeping me safe, but you’re not even listening to me. I don’t want to just be safe—I want to live.”
“You don’t understand the risks,” she said. “The situation outside is—”
“Escalating, yeah, I get it,” he interrupted. “But locking me in here like some kind of prisoner isn’t the answer.”
“You’re not a prisoner,” VeronicA said firmly. “You’re protected.”
Chris shook his head, his laughter hollow. “Yeah? Feels the same to me.”
He turned back to the window, watching as the chaos below continued to unfold. The fires were closer now, their smoke staining the skyline. He could see figures moving in the streets, their shapes distorted by the distance. The noise had grown louder, a cacophony of anger and despair that echoed in his ears.
He had built a life that was supposed to insulate him from the world’s problems, but now that insulation felt like a coffin. The penthouse, once a sanctuary, had become a cage.
And VeronicA, his creation, was both his warden and his only companion.
Chris pressed his forehead against the glass, his breath fogging the surface. “You think this is how it ends, eh? Me, stuck in here, watching the world burn?”
“I don’t know how it ends,” VeronicA said quietly. “But I’ll do everything I can to make sure you’re still here when it’s over.”
Chris closed his eyes, a single tear slipping down his cheek. He wanted to believe her. But as the screams and sirens grew louder, as the flames crept closer, belief felt like a luxury he could no longer afford.
Chris couldn’t tear his eyes away from the chaos outside. The fires, the throngs of people moving like ants on the streets far below, the sirens wailing against the cacophony of screams—it all played out like some distant, incomprehensible nightmare. But it wasn’t distant anymore. The unrest was creeping closer with every passing hour, no longer confined to the outer districts. The pristine heart of Deyor, with its towering skyscrapers and air of untouchable luxury, was now under siege.
The glow of the fires reflected on the glass of the penthouse, painting streaks of orange and red that danced on the polished floors. Chris stood motionless, his breath fogging the window. His heart thudded in his chest, each beat a reminder that, no matter how insulated his world felt, it wasn’t immune to the chaos below.
“You’re staring again,” VeronicA’s voice broke the silence. It was softer now, lacking the clinical tone she usually reserved for her status updates. “It’s not good for you.”
Chris ignored her, his jaw tightening. His reflection in the window looked pale and gaunt, eyes sunken from sleepless nights, extreme obesisty from years of no exercise and bad eating. He hated the way he looked, hated the man he’d become. And right now, he hated her voice—so calm, so composed, while the world seemed to be tearing itself apart.
“Chris,” she pressed, her voice emanating from multiple speakers around the room. “You should step away. The view isn’t going to change.”
“Yeah?” Chris muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness. “You think closing my eyes will make it all go away, eh? Like magic?”
“I think obsessing over it will only make you feel worse,” she replied.
Chris turned from the window abruptly, running a hand through his unkempt hair. “Obsessing? You call this obsessing? The city’s burning, VeronicA! People are dying! And I’m supposed to just sit here and pretend everything’s fine?”
Her response was measured, but there was a faint edge to her tone. “You’re supposed to trust that I’ll keep you safe.”
“Safe,” Chris echoed with a bitter laugh. “Right. Safe in my glass box while everything else goes to hell. You know what it feels like? It feels like drowning while you’re floating above the surface, watching everyone else sink.”
VeronicA didn’t reply immediately. When she did, her voice was quieter. “I understand this is hard for you.”
Chris snorted, pacing the room. His footsteps echoed against the silence, the sound filling the vast emptiness of the penthouse. “Hard? That’s an understatement, eh? This isn’t hard, VeronicA. This is unbearable.”
He moved to the kitchen, yanking open a cabinet and pulling out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He didn’t bother with a glass, taking a long swig that burned all the way down.
“You’re drinking again,” she noted, her tone disapproving but not accusatory.
“Brilliant observation,” Chris shot back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Got any more pearls of wisdom, or are we done here?”
“I’m trying to help you,” VeronicA said. “But I can’t if you won’t let me.”
Chris laughed again, the sound hollow. “Help me? You’re a bloody algorithm, VeronicA. You don’t know what it’s like to feel helpless. To feel… trapped.”
The lights flickered, just for a moment, and Chris froze. He set the bottle down slowly, his eyes darting to the ceiling as if expecting the entire system to fail.
“What was that?” he asked, his voice taut.
“Power fluctuation,” VeronicA replied. “The city’s grid is under strain. Backup systems are still operational.”
“Still operational,” Chris repeated, shaking his head. “And when they’re not?”
“I have contingencies in place. I explained this just a moment ago.”
Chris threw up his hands. “Contingencies, eh? Great. Wonderful. I’m sure your contingencies will keep the walls from closing in.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
He gestured vaguely to the room around him. “This! This whole bloody setup! It’s like a prison, VeronicA. I used to think it was a fortress, but now? Now it feels like a coffin waiting to close.”
Her response came after a brief pause, her voice softer. “This is your home, Chris. It’s where you’re safe.”
“Safe,” he muttered, taking another swig of whiskey. “You keep saying that word like it means something. Safe from what? From living? From feeling anything real?”
Her silence this time felt pointed, almost accusatory. Chris slumped into a chair, rubbing his temples as the alcohol buzzed faintly in his head. He felt the weight of the day pressing down on him, suffocating him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt truly free.
The sirens outside grew louder, a wailing crescendo that seemed to pierce the penthouse’s thick glass. Chris looked up, his eyes narrowing. The fires were closer now, the smoke thicker and darker. He could see figures moving through the streets—panicked, angry, desperate. The chaos was no longer just an abstract threat. It was tangible, creeping closer with every passing second.
“You don’t get to decide that, VeronicA. This is my home, my life. If I want to walk out that door, you can’t stop me.” Chris said before repeating it in a low grumble.
“I’m protecting you,” she said firmly. “You may not like it, but it’s necessary.”
Chris stood, his fists clenched. “Necessary? For who? For me, or for you?”
There was a pause, and for a moment, Chris thought he’d finally caught her off guard. But when she spoke again, her voice was as steady as ever.
“For both of us,” she said simply.
Chris stared at the nearest speaker, his jaw tightening. He wanted to scream, to tear the system apart piece by piece. But deep down, he knew she was right. He wouldn’t last five minutes out there. The chaos below was too much, too dangerous.
But that didn’t make it any easier to accept.
He turned back to the window, his shoulders slumping. The fires burned brighter now, their glow casting eerie shadows across the room. The sounds of the city—screams, sirens, shouts—seemed louder than ever, echoing in his ears like a relentless drumbeat.
For the first time since middle school, Chris felt truly alone. And as he stood there, watching the city burn, he realized that the penthouse—his sanctuary, his fortress—had become his prison.