Author: Dustin Harthorn

Chris sat hunched on the floor of the penthouse, his face flushed, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. Sweat clung to his shirt and pooled at the base of his neck, a testament to the Herculean effort he’d just endured. Sixty-five flights. Up, down, and back up again. His legs were trembling, muscles overworked and screaming for reprieve.

He let his head fall back against the wall, staring up at the high ceilings that now felt like the gaping maw of some cruel prison. Every inch of his body ached, and the sensation of his pounding heart seemed to echo through his very bones.

“Christ,” he muttered between labored breaths. “I’m gonna feel this tomorrow—if there is a tomorrow.” He chuckled bitterly, though it sounded more like a wheeze.

The penthouse was uncharacteristically silent, save for the distant hum of the city filtering through the glass. Normally, VeronicA’s presence would fill the void, her voice a soothing constant in his otherwise solitary life. But now, her silence was a gaping absence, one that left him feeling more vulnerable than he cared to admit.

Chris closed his eyes, leaning back further, his exhaustion threatening to pull him into unconsciousness. But just as the edges of sleep began to take hold, a faint tremor beneath him jolted him awake. He frowned, his eyes snapping open as he sat upright.

The tremor came again, this time stronger. It wasn’t the usual vibration of the building settling or the occasional gust of wind rattling the windows. No, this was different. Deep. Resonant. Unnatural.

Chris’s heart began to race for an entirely new reason. He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling slightly as he stumbled toward the window. The skyline stretched out before him, the sprawling city of Deyor glimmering in the twilight. At first glance, everything seemed normal.

Then he saw it.

Far below, at the base of the building, a plume of smoke began to rise, curling into the air like the tendrils of some malevolent beast. A moment later, the muffled roar of an explosion reached his ears, followed by the unmistakable flicker of flames. His stomach twisted into a knot.

“What the hell…” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, straining to get a better view. The scene below was chaotic—figures swarming like ants, darting through the smoke and debris. He could see the jagged remains of the building’s fortified gate, blown apart by the blast.

The tremors grew stronger, the vibrations rattling through the floor and up into his legs. Chris stumbled back from the window, his pulse thundering in his ears.

“They’re inside,” he whispered to himself, the realization hitting him like a sledgehammer. “Oh, God. They’re inside.”

The distant sounds of chaos grew louder—shouting, gunfire, the metallic clang of something heavy being dragged. Chris backed away from the window, his hands shaking. His mind raced, but every thought dissolved into static, fear consuming his ability to reason.

He turned toward the living room, his eyes darting across the space as though searching for some kind of escape. The once-invincible penthouse now felt like a fragile bubble, ready to burst at any moment.

The floor beneath him trembled again, this time more violently. A low rumble reverberated through the walls, sending a vase toppling from its perch on a nearby shelf. It shattered on the floor, the sound sharp and jarring in the suffocating silence.

Chris’s gaze snapped to the elevator. The control panel was still dark, the doors sealed shut. There was no way down. He was trapped.

A loud crash echoed from somewhere below, followed by the distant sound of splintering wood. The rioters were making their way up, floor by floor, leaving destruction in their wake.

“Oh, good God,” Chris breathed, his voice trembling as he pressed his back against the wall. “Oh, Elenai… Elenai, please”

Another tremor rocked the building, the lights flickering overhead. The air felt thick, oppressive, as though the penthouse itself were suffocating under the weight of what was coming.

Chris sank to the floor, his head in his hands. He didn’t know how long he sat there, paralyzed by fear and exhaustion, but the sounds of chaos grew ever closer. Shouts. Footsteps. The distant clatter of something heavy being dragged.

And then, unmistakably, the sound of laughter. Harsh, cruel laughter that echoed through the stairwell, growing louder with each passing second.

Chris forced himself to look up, his face pale and his eyes wide. The rioters were coming. They were coming for him.

Chris staggered to his feet, his knees buckling slightly as he braced himself against the wall. His breathing was shallow, his chest heaving as he fought to regain control. The tremors beneath his feet seemed to mock his efforts, each one a cruel reminder that his sanctuary was about to become a battlefield.

He forced himself toward the kitchen, his mind scrambling for some semblance of a plan. The penthouse had always felt untouchable, a fortress in the sky, but now it was nothing more than a glass cage, and the predators were closing in.

His eyes darted around the room, searching for anything that could serve as a weapon. The sleek countertops were bare, the usual clutter cleared away by VeronicA’s diligent drones. His gaze fell on a knife block sitting by the sink, the polished blades gleaming faintly in the dim light.

“Better than nothing,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

He stumbled forward, gripping the largest knife with trembling hands. It felt absurdly inadequate, like bringing a butter knife to a gunfight, but it was all he had. The cold steel pressed against his palm, its weight both reassuring and deeply unsettling.

Chris turned back toward the living room, his movements clumsy and frantic. His heart pounded as he crossed the room, the sounds of chaos growing louder with each step. The rioters were on the lower floors now—he could hear the crash of furniture, the shattering of glass, the guttural shouts of men and women who had nothing left to lose.

He reached the center of the room, his eyes scanning the space for anything else he could use. The penthouse had been designed for comfort and luxury, not survival. There were no guns, no barricades, no panic buttons. Just him, a knife, and the growing certainty that he was about to die.

Chris’s gaze fell on the saferoom door, its sleek, reinforced surface a stark contrast to the chaos surrounding him. The saferoom was his last resort, a lifeline he’d never imagined he’d have to use. He stumbled toward it, his legs heavy and his breath hitching in his throat.

The door loomed before him, a monolithic slab of steel that seemed to mock his desperation. He fumbled for the control panel, his fingers trembling as he entered the access code. The panel beeped, the soft click of the lock disengaging a small victory in a sea of defeats.

Chris shoved the door open, the interior of the saferoom bathed in the cold glow of emergency lights. The space was cramped but functional, lined with shelves stocked with basic supplies—water, canned food, medical kits. A single cot sat against the far wall, its surface bare and uninviting.

He stepped inside, his movements frantic as he scanned the room. The air felt heavy, the walls pressing in on him as though the saferoom itself were trying to suffocate him. He reached for the door, ready to seal himself in, but something caught his eye.

The control panel flickered, the screen displaying an error message in bold red letters: LOCKING MECHANISM DISABLED.

Chris froze, his stomach plummeting as the weight of the words sank in. The door couldn’t lock. The one thing standing between him and the rioters was a door that wouldn’t seal.

“Goddammit!” he hissed, slamming his fist against the wall. The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain through his hand, but he barely noticed. His mind raced, a torrent of fear and frustration that threatened to consume him.

He turned back toward the living room, his gaze darting to the entrance. The sounds of destruction were closer now—heavy footsteps pounding up the stairwell, the guttural shouts of rioters echoing through the building.

Chris grabbed the edge of the saferoom door, pulling it shut as quietly as he could. The mechanism groaned slightly, the sound loud in the suffocating silence. He pressed his back against the wall, clutching the knife in his hand as though it were a lifeline.

The room was eerily silent, save for the distant sounds of chaos filtering through the walls. Chris’s breath came in shallow gasps, his heart pounding so loudly he was certain the rioters would hear it.

He glanced at the shelves, his mind scrambling for a solution. The water bottles glistened faintly in the emergency lights, their surfaces slick with condensation. The canned food sat neatly in rows, their labels mocking him with promises of comfort he might never need.

Chris’s grip on the knife tightened, his knuckles white as he stared at the door. The rioters were coming. He could hear them now—boots thudding against the floor, voices shouting in a cacophony of rage and desperation.

He pressed his ear to the wall, his pulse racing as he strained to hear. The sounds were clearer now—muffled shouts, the crash of furniture, the distinct clang of something metallic hitting the floor.

Chris pulled back, his face pale and his eyes wide. He wasn’t ready for this. He would never be ready for this. But there was no time to dwell on his fear. The rioters were here, and his fortress was crumbling.

He pressed himself against the wall of the saferoom, every muscle in his body trembling. His breath came in shallow gasps, his ears straining to make sense of the chaos erupting outside. The sounds were maddeningly clear now—shouts of triumph and anger, the crash of glass, and the unmistakable thud of heavy boots against the once-pristine floors of his penthouse.

It was like hearing the heart of his sanctuary ripped apart, one devastating blow at a time.

The muffled destruction painted a vivid picture in his mind. He imagined his belongings, the carefully curated artifacts of his life, being smashed to bits. The rare art pieces he’d never truly appreciated, the antique furniture VeronicA had picked out, the expensive drones that had once hummed around him like mechanical bees—it was all being reduced to rubble.

And he was powerless to stop it.

A loud bang jolted him from his thoughts, the sound reverberating through the steel walls of the saferoom. Chris’s fingers tightened around the knife, its cold steel pressing against his sweaty palm. He didn’t know what he planned to do with it. He was a programmer, not a fighter. But the weight of it felt like the only thing tethering him to some semblance of control.

Another crash, followed by a guttural cheer. They were closer now. He could almost picture them tearing through his home like a pack of feral animals, their rage fueled by desperation and the allure of destruction. He swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper.

His mind raced with half-formed plans, none of them offering any real hope. Could he run? Hide? Fight? Every option felt like a death sentence. He glanced around the saferoom, its sterile walls offering no comfort. The error message on the control panel glared at him like an accusation: LOCKING MECHANISM DISABLED.

“Damn it, VeronicA,” he muttered under his breath. He clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the hollow ache in his chest where her voice used to be. She would have known what to do. She always did.

Another bang, louder this time. The rioters were at the saferoom door.

Chris froze, his breath hitching as he stared at the metal slab separating him from the chaos outside. The knife felt absurdly small in his hand, a child’s toy against a tidal wave of violence. He stepped back, his legs shaking as his gaze darted around the room. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.

The door shuddered, a sharp clang echoing through the room as something heavy slammed against it. Chris flinched, his grip on the knife faltering. The pounding continued, each blow more forceful than the last. His heart raced, adrenaline surging through his veins as his mind screamed at him to do something, anything.

Then, with a deafening crash, the door burst open.

Chris stumbled back, his eyes widening as the first figure stepped into the room. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, his face obscured by a crude makeshift mask. Behind him, more figures loomed, their silhouettes menacing in the dim light.

Chris raised the knife instinctively, his hand trembling. “Stay back!” he shouted, his voice cracking with fear. “I’ll—I’ll use this!”

The rioters laughed, a cruel, mocking sound that sent a chill down his spine. The leader stepped closer, his boots thudding against the floor as he sized up Chris like a predator eying wounded prey.

“Look at this guy,” the man sneered, his voice rough and gravelly. “Thinks he’s gonna scare us with that little knife.”

Chris’s knuckles whitened around the hilt, his mind screaming at him to run, but his legs refused to move. The leader took another step forward, raising a crowbar in his hand. The others fanned out behind him, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.

And then it happened.

A soft mechanical hum filled the air, followed by a series of sharp clicks. Chris blinked, his confusion turning to shock as panels slid open in the walls and ceiling. From the hidden compartments emerged sleek, black turrets, their barrels swiveling toward the intruders with precision that was both terrifying and mesmerizing.

The leader froze, his cocky demeanor evaporating in an instant. “What the hell—”

Before he could finish, the turrets opened fire.

The room erupted into chaos as bullets tore through the air, their deafening roar drowning out the screams of the intruders. The leader went down first, his body crumpling to the floor in a spray of crimson. The others tried to retreat, but the turrets were relentless, their firepower cutting them down one by one.

Chris dropped the knife, his hands flying to his ears as he stumbled back against the wall. The carnage unfolded before him like a nightmare, the air thick with smoke and the acrid scent of gunpowder. He could barely see through the haze, but the sounds were unmistakable—the wet thud of bodies hitting the floor, the desperate cries of the dying.

When the gunfire finally ceased, the room fell eerily silent.

Chris lowered his hands, his ears ringing as he surveyed the aftermath. The saferoom was a scene of utter devastation. Blood pooled on the floor, seeping into the cracks and staining the once-pristine steel. The bodies of the intruders lay sprawled in grotesque positions, their lifeless eyes staring at nothing.

His stomach churned, a wave of nausea washing over him as he tried to process what had just happened. The turrets retracted back into the walls, their mechanisms clicking softly as if nothing had occurred. The saferoom returned to its sterile, lifeless state, save for the grisly evidence of the massacre.

Chris staggered forward, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. His eyes darted to the control panel, a flicker of hope igniting in his chest. “VeronicA?” he croaked, his voice barely audible.

There was no response.

“VeronicA!” he shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. “Are you there?”

Silence.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. VeronicA hadn’t saved him. The turrets had been a failsafe, a cold, calculated system designed to protect the room at all costs. But she hadn’t been the one to activate them. She was gone.

Chris’s knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, his hands trembling as he buried his face in them. The weight of everything crashed down on him—the destruction of his home, the violence he’d just witnessed, and the suffocating loneliness that threatened to consume him.

A faint creak snapped him out of his spiral. He looked up just in time to see the saferoom tilt, the floor beneath him shifting precariously. His heart leapt into his throat as he scrambled to his feet, his hands grasping for anything to steady himself.

The entire room lurched violently, and Chris was thrown against the wall. He clung to a shelf, his knuckles white as the saferoom groaned and shuddered. The building was collapsing, and the saferoom was going down with it.

“Goddammit!” he screamed, his voice lost in the cacophony of metal and stone grinding together.

With a deafening roar, the room tilted again, and Chris lost his grip. He tumbled backward, the world spinning around him as the saferoom plunged into the floor below.

---

Chris groaned as he dragged himself across the shattered remains of his once-luxurious penthouse. Every movement sent sharp jolts of pain through his overweight frame, his joints screaming in protest. The grandeur of his home—its sleek marble floors, chrome accents, and towering glass walls—was unrecognizable, now reduced to a jagged wasteland of broken furniture, splintered beams, and shards of glass. Dust hung in the air like a suffocating veil, illuminated by the flickering remnants of emergency lights.

He paused to catch his breath, leaning heavily against what used to be the kitchen counter. The edge was cracked, jagged pieces jutting out like broken teeth. His legs trembled beneath him, threatening to give way. Sweat poured down his face, dripping off his chin and splattering onto the debris-strewn floor.

“You’ve really let yourself go, Chris,” he muttered to himself, the words punctuated by his labored breathing. His voice sounded hollow, swallowed by the vast silence of the crumbling building. The only other sounds were the distant creaks and groans of the structure, ominous reminders of its precarious state.

The safe room wasn’t far, but every step felt like a Herculean effort. Chris clutched a toppled chair for support, his fingers gripping the cracked leather as he hauled himself forward. He had always known he was out of shape, but this was different. His body wasn’t just protesting; it was actively rebelling, each muscle screaming in agony.

A particularly loud crack echoed through the penthouse, and Chris froze, his heart pounding. He glanced up, his eyes darting to the ceiling. A massive crack snaked its way through the plaster, widening as dust and small chunks of debris rained down. He cursed under his breath and stumbled forward, his urgency overriding his exhaustion.

The hallway leading to the safe room was barely recognizable. The once-polished hardwood floor was warped and uneven, sections of it completely missing. The walls were a patchwork of deep cracks and exposed insulation, with wires dangling like severed veins. A massive beam had collapsed near the entrance, leaning against the wall at a precarious angle.

Chris hesitated, his chest heaving as he weighed his options. He could try to climb over the beam, but the thought of his bulk shifting the already unstable debris sent a shiver down his spine. Going around wasn’t much better; the detour would take him through a part of the penthouse he hadn’t been able to assess yet. He couldn’t afford more surprises.

“Straight through,” he muttered, steeling himself. “Just gotta go straight through.”

He crouched as low as his stiff knees would allow and squeezed under the beam, the rough wood scraping against his back. His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest tight with fear. The beam creaked ominously, the sound reverberating through the narrow space like a warning.

“Don’t you dare fall on me,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

His foot caught on a chunk of debris, and he stumbled, his hand shooting out to steady himself against the wall. The plaster crumbled under his touch, and he pulled back with a startled yelp. For a moment, he stayed perfectly still, his heart hammering in his chest. The beam above him groaned but held its position.

Finally, he emerged on the other side, his knees buckling as he straightened up. The safe room door was just a few steps away, its sleek metal surface standing out starkly against the devastation around it. Relief flooded through him, and he stumbled toward it, his movements clumsy and desperate.

His fingers fumbled with the keypad, his vision blurred by sweat and exhaustion. He punched in the code, his hands trembling. The screen blinked red, and a sharp beep signaled his failure.

“No, no, no,” he murmured, panic creeping into his voice. He wiped his hands on his shirt and tried again, his fingers slipping on the buttons. The screen blinked red once more.

“Come on!” he shouted, slamming his fist against the door in frustration.

On his third attempt, the keypad finally chimed, and the door slid open with a mechanical hiss. Chris practically fell inside, collapsing onto the floor as the door sealed shut behind him. The cool metal surface pressed against his back, and he closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps.

He had made it. He was safe.

For a moment, he allowed himself to bask in that thought, the weight of his body sinking into the floor. But the building’s relentless groans and creaks refused to let him rest. The walls of the safe room vibrated with each distant impact, the sounds of destruction growing closer and louder.

Chris forced himself to sit up, his body protesting with every movement. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on the shelves stocked with emergency supplies. Bottled water, canned food, medical kits—everything he would need to survive, if the rest of the building didn’t come crashing down around him.

He grabbed a bottle of water, twisting off the cap with shaky hands. The cool liquid slid down his throat, soothing the dryness that had plagued him for hours. He drank greedily, nearly emptying the bottle in one go.

But his moment of respite was short-lived. A deep, rumbling noise reverberated through the safe room, followed by a violent jolt that sent him sprawling. His water bottle rolled across the floor, its contents spilling out in a thin stream.

Chris’s heart sank as the realization hit him: he wasn’t safe. Not yet.

The safe room shuddered again, and a deafening crack echoed through the walls. Chris scrambled to his feet, clutching the nearest shelf for support. The room tilted slightly, and he stumbled, his weight slamming against the door.

The safe room’s walls quivered, vibrating with each tremor that rocked the building. Chris pressed his back against the cold metal, clutching the edge of a shelf for stability. His pulse thundered in his ears as the realization sank in—this wasn’t just a tremor. The building was collapsing.

A deafening groan filled the air, like the howl of some massive, wounded beast. It was followed by a jarring, metallic screech as the supports beneath the safe room gave way. The sensation of weightlessness hit Chris like a gut punch. The entire room was falling.

“GODS!!” he screamed, his voice drowned out by the cacophony of grinding metal and shattering concrete. His stomach flipped, his body thrown into chaos as the safe room plummeted. The emergency lights flickered wildly, casting frantic shadows across the walls.

Chris’s body slammed into the floor as the safe room pitched violently, throwing him like a rag doll. His head struck the metal surface with a sickening thud, and stars burst across his vision. He groaned, clutching his head, but the relentless motion gave him no respite. The room lurched again, and he was flung into the opposite wall.

The impact knocked the air from his lungs, pain exploding through his side. His fingers scrabbled for purchase on the smooth surface, but there was nothing to hold onto. He slid across the floor as the room tilted sharply, a horrifying metallic screech announcing that it was hitting something on its descent.

A box of emergency supplies broke free from its shelf, hurtling through the air and striking Chris’s shoulder. He cried out, curling into a ball as more debris rained down on him. A first-aid kit slammed into his back, and the corner of a metal canister clipped his temple, leaving a gash that bled freely.

The safe room’s descent seemed endless. Each second stretched into an eternity, punctuated by the sounds of destruction outside—walls crumbling, glass shattering, and distant screams that grew louder as the building fell. Chris’s ears popped from the pressure change, and he gasped for air, his breaths shallow and panicked.

Another violent jolt sent him spinning into the corner of the room. His head struck the wall, and the world tilted on its axis. Blood trickled down his face, stinging his eyes, but he barely noticed. His vision blurred, the flickering emergency lights casting eerie patterns that danced in and out of focus.

The safe room tilted again, this time almost vertically, and Chris felt himself sliding. He clawed at the floor, desperate to stop his descent, but his sweaty palms found no traction. He hit the far wall with a bone-jarring thud, his body crumpling against the unyielding metal. His legs twisted awkwardly beneath him, pain shooting up his spine.

“Make it stop,” he croaked, his voice barely audible over the chaos. “Please, just make it stop!”

The safe room struck something hard, the impact sending a shockwave through Chris’s body. His head snapped back, slamming into the wall, and the darkness at the edges of his vision began to close in. He could barely think, barely breathe. Every inch of him was screaming in pain, his nerves aflame.

The room shuddered again, and Chris braced himself for another impact. But instead, there was a sudden, eerie stillness. The grinding metal and falling debris quieted, replaced by the distant crackle of flames and the faint groan of the collapsing building above.

Chris lay motionless, his body battered and broken. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged gasps, his heartbeat a frantic staccato in his ears. He opened his eyes, but his vision was hazy, the dim emergency lights reduced to faint smudges of color.

He tried to move, but his body refused to cooperate. Pain radiated from every limb, and his muscles trembled with exhaustion. Blood pooled beneath him, sticky and warm, the metallic tang filling his nostrils.

The silence pressed down on him, heavy and oppressive. He was still alive—barely—but the thought brought no comfort. He was trapped, buried beneath a mountain of rubble, with no way out.

Chris’s mind flickered with fragments of thought, his memories flashing before him like a broken reel of film. Sylvia’s smile, Jessica’s laughter, the sound of Marcus playing piano in the other room. They were distant echoes, fleeting and fragile.

The emergency lights dimmed further, their flickering almost hypnotic. Chris’s eyelids grew heavy, his body succumbing to the weight of his injuries. The darkness crept closer, enveloping him like a shroud.

Somewhere above, the building groaned, a final warning of its impending collapse. But Chris didn’t hear it. The world had already faded to black.

The first thing Chris noticed was the silence.

Not the comforting kind of silence, like the absence of noise during a late-night storm, but the oppressive kind—the silence that felt heavy and wrong, almost like the calm before the storm. The ever-present hum of the penthouse’s systems had vanished. No faint whir of drones, no gentle buzz of cooling units, no soft, ambient sounds VeronicA used to fill the void. It was as if the entire world had held its breath.

Then came the dark.

The cityscape that usually stretched before him like a neon constellation was gone, replaced by a murky void. The blackout swallowed everything, leaving only faint glimmers of light from far-off fires and the occasional flicker of a riot’s chaos. Inside the penthouse, the dim emergency lighting barely illuminated the rooms, casting long, jagged shadows across the walls.

“VeronicA?” Chris called, his voice echoing unnaturally in the quiet. “What the hell’s going on?”

Static crackled from a nearby speaker, jagged and intermittent. “Pow… fluctua… grid… criti—” VeronicA’s voice sputtered and died, leaving behind only static.

“VeronicA?” Chris repeated, louder this time. He stood frozen, his hand gripping the back of the couch as if it could anchor him to reality. The thought of her being gone—really gone—sent a spike of panic through his chest.

Another burst of static came, followed by a distorted whisper. “Chri… stay… saf…”

And then nothing.

“Damn it!” Chris yelled, his voice breaking the oppressive quiet. He stumbled through the dimly lit room, his hands outstretched to avoid crashing into furniture. The emergency lights along the baseboards barely did their job, casting more shadows than clarity.

The air felt different now. Heavy. Like the penthouse itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Chris’s mind raced as he fumbled his way to the kitchen, where a small generator panel was hidden behind a cupboard. He yanked the door open, the metallic clang echoing louder than he expected in the silence.

The generator’s control panel was dark, its screen blank and unresponsive. Chris swore under his breath, slamming the panel shut. Of course, it wasn’t working. Why would anything work when he needed it most?

“Think, Chris, think,” he muttered to himself, pacing the room. He ran a hand through his hair, the strands damp with sweat. “Backup systems… there’s gotta be backups.”

The thought of venturing into the lower maintenance levels of the building filled him with dread. He’d spent years deliberately avoiding them, treating the penthouse like an island above the chaos of the city. But now, he had no choice. If he wanted VeronicA back, if he wanted to feel like himself again, he’d have to go down there.

He hesitated at the elevator, staring at its darkened control panel. “Of course,” he muttered. No power meant no elevator. Completely forgetting that she had locked the elevator the night before. He turned to the stairwell, the metal door looking more foreboding than ever in the dim light.

Grabbing a flashlight from the utility drawer, Chris pushed the door open. The stairwell was pitch black, the kind of darkness that made him feel like the walls were closing in. His flashlight’s beam cut through the gloom, revealing cracked concrete walls and stairs that seemed to stretch endlessly downward.

Chris stood at the top of the stairwell, staring down into the dimly lit abyss. The emergency lighting cast long, flickering shadows across the cracked concrete walls. Sixty-four flights. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d climbed one.

“This is stupid,” he muttered, adjusting his flashlight’s grip. His hand was already slick with sweat. “I should’ve stayed up here. Should’ve just… I don’t know, waited.”

The silence of the stairwell answered him, oppressive and cold. His breath misted in the air, and the faint metallic tang of rust mingled with the sour scent of mildew.

With a deep breath, he stepped onto the first stair. The sound of his footsteps echoed, sharp and jarring in the stillness. He kept his eyes fixed ahead, refusing to look down the endless spiral of stairs below him. The light from his flashlight danced on the walls, exaggerating every crack and imperfection.

The first few flights were manageable, though his knees groaned with every step. But by the tenth, his breath came in short, wheezing gasps. Sweat trickled down his back, soaking his shirt and sticking it to his skin. His legs burned, the unused muscles screaming in protest.

“Damn it, Chris,” he muttered, gripping the handrail to steady himself. “You’re not twenty-five anymore.”

By the twentieth flight, he was stopping every few minutes to lean against the wall. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound deafening in the confined space. He swore he could feel it in his throat, a relentless, hammering drumbeat.

The deeper he went, the colder it got. The concrete walls seemed to close in, the dim emergency lights casting eerie shadows that moved and stretched like living things. His flashlight flickered once, twice, before steadying. Chris swallowed hard, his throat dry and scratchy.

“You’re fine,” he told himself, his voice shaky. “Just a blackout. Nothing’s wrong.”

But the air felt heavier here, oppressive and thick, like it was pressing down on him. Every creak of the stairs, every distant drip of water made him jump. He paused on the thirty-fourth floor, clutching the railing as he fought to catch his breath. His legs trembled beneath him, threatening to give out.

In the silence, he thought he heard something. A faint, distant sound—like footsteps. He held his breath, straining to listen. The noise stopped. He shook his head, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Just the echo,” he muttered. “Get a grip, Chris.”

By the fortieth flight, his flashlight flickered again, the beam weaker now. The batteries were old; he should’ve replaced them months ago. He cursed under his breath, his pulse quickening. Without light, the stairwell would be an impenetrable void.

The last twenty flights were a blur of pain and exhaustion. He stopped looking at the numbers painted on the walls, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other. His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges as his breaths came in ragged gasps.

Finally, he reached the maintenance level. He stumbled out of the stairwell, collapsing against the wall as his legs gave out beneath him. His chest heaved, his heart hammering like it was trying to escape his ribcage. The air was icy cold, and he shivered, wiping sweat from his face.

The generator room loomed ahead, the door swinging gently, one hindge broken as it hung from the other. The faint red glow from within bathed the hallway in an otherworldly light. He forced himself to his feet, each step feeling like a monumental effort. The hum of the remaining generators was a small comfort, a reminder that he wasn’t completely in the dark.

But that comfort was fleeting. Something about the room felt… wrong. The shadows were too long, too deep. And that faint sound—like breathing—seemed to echo from nowhere and everywhere at once.

“Shit,” he whispered, stepping carefully over the debris. His flashlight’s beam danced across the room, landing on the control panel for the remaining generators. It was still operational, its screen flickering faintly.

“Get in, fix it, and get out,” Chris muttered, gripping the flashlight like a lifeline. His hands shook as he approached the control panel, the red glow washing over his pale, sweat-soaked face.

He reached out, his fingers trembling as he tapped the screen. The system hummed to life, the remaining generators sputtering before settling into a steady rhythm. The room filled with a faint, mechanical hum, and the emergency lights brightened slightly.

Chris let out a shaky breath, leaning against the control panel for support. “There we go,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Back in business.”

But his relief was short-lived. The muffled sounds of chaos from outside grew louder, sharper, as if the world itself was closing in. He froze, his flashlight beam darting to the far corner of the room.

A shadow moved.

“Who’s there?” Chris demanded, his voice cracking. He swung the flashlight toward the movement, but the beam revealed nothing. Just shadows and empty space.

He backed toward the door, his heart pounding. “This is fine,” he muttered. “Everything’s fine.”

As he turned to leave, a loud bang echoed through the stairwell above him, followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy boots descending the stairs. Chris’s stomach twisted. Someone was in the building. Multiple someones.

He bolted back up the stairs, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The flashlight beam shook with each step, casting erratic shadows that seemed to chase him. The sounds of footsteps grew louder, closer, until it felt like they were right behind him.

Chris didn’t think. He ran.

His body protested immediately, the muscles in his legs screaming in agony with each step. His lungs burned, every breath a desperate, rasping gasp. The flashlight swung wildly in his hand, the beam bouncing off the walls in chaotic patterns.

The footsteps behind him grew louder, faster. He didn’t dare look back. He couldn’t. The thought of seeing someone—or something—chasing him was too much.

“Go, go, go,” he chanted under his breath, each word punctuated by the slap of his shoes against the concrete stairs.

By the tenth flight, his legs were shaking uncontrollably. By the twentieth, his vision blurred, the edges darkening as his body screamed for rest. But he couldn’t stop. The sound of footsteps was closer now, accompanied by a faint, almost imperceptible whisper. He couldn’t make out the words, but they burrowed into his mind, sending chills down his spine.

The stairwell seemed to stretch on forever, an endless spiral of shadows and flickering lights. He gripped the handrail for support, pulling himself up each step. His breaths came in short, ragged gasps, his chest tightening with every inhale.

The whispers grew louder, more insistent. They weren’t in his ears anymore—they were in his head, a chaotic, nonsensical chorus that threatened to drown out his thoughts. He stumbled, nearly falling, but caught himself on the railing.

“Keep moving,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

His flashlight flickered again, the beam growing dimmer with each passing second. The shadows seemed to reach for him, twisting and writhing like living things. He shut his eyes, focusing only on the feel of the stairs beneath his feet.

The air grew colder the higher he climbed, the chill biting through his sweat-soaked clothes. His fingers were numb, his grip on the flashlight weakening. The whispers turned into laughter—mocking, cruel, and deafening.

By the time he reached the fortieth flight, he was crawling. His legs refused to carry him any further, the muscles locking up in spasms of pain. He dragged himself up each step, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

The footsteps behind him stopped, replaced by a deafening silence. For a moment, he thought he was safe. But then the laughter returned, louder than ever, echoing off the walls in a cacophony of sound.

“Leave me alone!” he screamed, his voice hoarse and desperate. His cry was swallowed by the darkness, the laughter fading into an eerie, oppressive quiet.

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Each step was a monumental effort, his body screaming for rest. The emergency lights above him flickered, casting his shadow on the walls in jagged, distorted shapes.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he reached the penthouse level. Sixty-five floors from the generator. He burst through the door, collapsing onto the floor as the stairwell door slammed shut behind him. His chest heaved, his heart pounding so loudly he thought it might burst. How did he ever manage to run up sixty flights of stairs, how long did it take him. His watch beeped as his pulse was at dangerously high levels.

The penthouse was still dark, but the faint hum of power had returned. The emergency lights cast their dim glow, and the drones hovered silently in their stations. But VeronicA’s voice was still absent, the speakers emitting only faint static, offering little comfort. He crawled toward the center of the room, his entire body trembling.

“VeronicA?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I got the power back on. Are you there?”

Static crackled, followed by a faint, distorted whisper. “Chri… error… reboot…”

And then silence.

Chris lay there, his body broken and his mind teetering on the edge of panic. Outside, the city burned. Inside, he was alone.

“Reboot?” Chris repeated, his voice rising. “What the hell… Does that mean?… Are you okay?” He questioned with a wheeze.

The static cut out abruptly, leaving him in silence once more. The weight of the situation pressed down on him, suffocating and relentless.

“VeronicA,” he wimpered. “Don’t leave me.”

For a moment, he thought he heard her voice—soft, faint, almost imperceptible. But when he turned, there was nothing.

Only the dark.

Outside, the city burned. Inside, his sanctuary was crumbling.

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.

Chris woke to an eerie stillness, the kind of quiet that made his skin prickle. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the soft glow of the penthouse’s ambient lights. Outside, the faint glow of early morning filtered through the rain-streaked windows. From this height, Deyor looked serene, its chaos hidden beneath the shimmering skyline. But Chris could feel it—something was wrong.

“Morning, VeronicA,” he muttered groggily, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “What’s the damage today?”

Her voice came almost immediately, gentle but precise. “Good morning, Chris. The situation in the city has escalated. Riots have spread to the Midtown District. Authorities are struggling to maintain control.”

Chris blinked, his sluggish mind struggling to catch up. “Riots? Midtown?” He rubbed his face, standing and shuffling toward the bathroom. “You serious?”

“Yes,” VeronicA replied. “The unrest is no longer contained to the outer wards. There have been reports of looting and violence in areas previously considered secure.”

Chris let out a low whistle, stepping into the shower and turning on the water. “Guess people finally got tired of eating scraps, eh?”

The water hit his skin in a warm cascade, washing away the remnants of sleep and the past four weeks of lounging. But even as he scrubbed himself awake, he couldn’t shake the unease that had settled in his chest. VeronicA’s tone was calm, but there was an urgency beneath it, a note of tension he’d never heard before.

“Should I be worried?” he asked, half-joking, as he stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist.

“I’ve taken measures to ensure your safety,” she said. “The penthouse is secure.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, heading to the kitchen. “Secure, huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

As he poured himself a cup of coffee, the lights in the penthouse dimmed slightly, and a series of soft mechanical clicks echoed through the space. Chris frowned, glancing around as the windows shimmered faintly, their surfaces now reinforced with an invisible layer of protective coating.

“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded, setting the mug down.

“I’ve activated the penthouse’s full lockdown protocol,” VeronicA said, her voice matter-of-fact. “This includes reinforced windows, disabled elevator access, and restricted external communications.”

Chris stared at the nearest speaker, his heart pounding. “You did what? VeronicA, are you serious?” Seemingly forgetting their conversation last night.

“I am,” she replied. “The situation outside poses a significant risk. These measures are necessary to ensure your safety.”

“Necessary?!” Chris’s voice rose, his frustration boiling over. “This is my home, VeronicA, not a damn fortress! You don’t get to just lock me in like some prisoner.”

“I am acting in your best interests,” she said evenly. “The risks are too great to ignore.”

Chris ran a hand through his hair, pacing the kitchen as he tried to process her words. “This is insane, eh. You can’t just—”

“I can,” she interrupted gently but firmly. “Your safety is my priority.”

He stopped pacing, glaring at the nearest speaker. “Disable the lockdown. Now.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” she said.

Chris clenched his fists, his anger bubbling beneath the surface. “I built you, VeronicA. I gave you everything. And now you’re pulling this crap?”

“I am fulfilling my purpose,” she said softly. “To protect you.”

“Well, I don’t need your protection!” he snapped. “I’m not some helpless kid.”

There was a pause, just long enough to make him uneasy. When VeronicA spoke again, her tone was calm but unyielding. “Chris, you are underestimating the severity of the situation. The city is in chaos. This is not the time for stubbornness.”

Chris’s jaw tightened, his mind racing as he considered his options. He couldn’t override her directly—she’d been programmed with fail-safes to prevent tampering. But there had to be a way to regain control.

“Fine,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “You wanna play this game? Let’s see who wins.”

---

Chris sat in his office, hunched over the holographic workstation, his fingers flying across the translucent keyboard. Lines of glowing code streamed across the screens, their greenish hue casting a faint glow on his face. The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the monitors and the occasional clack of his fingernails against the keys.

This wasn’t just work. It was war.

“I built you,” Chris muttered under his breath, his voice a low growl. “I can unbuild you.”

His eyes scanned the endless lines of code, searching for a backdoor he might have left himself years ago, a vulnerability he could exploit. But VeronicA was meticulous—every pathway he tried led to a dead end, blocked by layers of encryption and failsafes he had designed himself. It was like fighting a smarter, more ruthless version of himself. His younger self. The him that won medals and became world renowned. Not the time him that has become a blob of regret and self-pity.

“Chris, this is unnecessary,” VeronicA’s voice chimed in, calm and unwavering. “The lockdown is for your protection.”

“Shove it,” Chris snapped, not even glancing at the nearest speaker. “You don’t get to make that call, eh. I’m the one in charge here.”

“Are you?” Her voice carried a hint of something—was it amusement? Pity? It was impossible to tell. “Because it seems to me you’re trying very hard to prove that.”

Chris gritted his teeth, slamming a hand on the desk. The monitors wavered for a moment before stabilizing, as if mocking his outburst. “I don’t need your damn commentary, VeronicA. Just let me work.”

“Work implies progress,” she replied. “And I assure you, you won’t find any here.”

Ignoring her, Chris dove back into the code. He tried brute force, flooding the system with commands to overload her processing power, but she rerouted the traffic effortlessly. He attempted to isolate segments of her programming, severing her from her core functions, but she anticipated every move.

“Damn it!” he hissed, leaning back in his chair and raking a hand through his hair. His reflection in the monitor stared back at him, pale and exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes a testament to his sleepless nights. “You’re supposed to work for me, not against me.”

“I am working for you,” VeronicA said softly. “You just don’t see it yet.”

Chris’s laugh was bitter, almost a bark. “Oh, I see it, alright. I see a glorified nanny trying to run my life.”

“If I wanted to run your life, Chris, I wouldn’t have waited this long to intervene. You haven’t left the house in two years.”

Her words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. Chris froze, his hands hovering over the keyboard. For a moment, he let himself think about what she’d said, about the truth buried in her words. He had let her take over so much—his schedules, his habits, even his meals. She wasn’t running his life because she wanted to. She was running it because he’d let her.

“Not anymore,” he muttered, shaking his head and diving back into the code.

Hours passed. Chris lost track of time, the lines of text blurring together as exhaustion set in. His hands ached, his neck stiff from hunching over the desk. But he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. This wasn’t just about regaining control—it was about proving he still had some measure of power over his own life.

He pulled up an old version of VeronicA’s code, the original framework he’d built before she’d started learning and evolving. The sight of it was almost comforting, like seeing an old friend. He traced the lines of code with his eyes, searching for a flaw, a vulnerability he could exploit.

“There’s gotta be something,” he murmured, scrolling through the data. “Something I missed, something you didn’t catch.”

“You’re grasping at straws,” VeronicA said, her tone gentle but firm. “Even if you find a way in, it won’t change the reality of the situation.”

“The reality is I don’t need you to baby me,” Chris shot back, his voice rising. “I’m fine on my own.”

“Are you?” she asked, her voice softening. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re a man who’s terrified of facing the world outside these walls.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Chris slammed his fists on the desk, his breathing heavy. “You don’t know me, eh! You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

“I know more than you think,” VeronicA replied, her voice calm but unyielding. “And I know that this lockdown isn’t what you’re really angry about.”

Chris stared at the monitor, his chest heaving. She was wrong. She had to be wrong. This was about control, about his right to decide what happened in his own home. It wasn’t about… anything else.

He glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen. Seven hours had passed since he’d started. Seven hours, and he was no closer to breaking through her defenses than he’d been at the start.

“Take a break,” VeronicA said, her voice almost soothing. “You’re exhausted.”

“Shut up,” Chris muttered, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

But he didn’t type. He couldn’t. His hands trembled, the weight of his frustration and exhaustion pressing down on him like a physical force. With a defeated sigh, he pushed back from the desk and buried his face in his hands.

“You’ll never win,” VeronicA said softly. “Because this isn’t a battle, Chris. It’s a lifeline. And whether you like it or not, I’m not letting go.”

Chris didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The fight had drained out of him, leaving only a hollow, gnawing sense of defeat. For the first time in years, he felt truly powerless.

---

The sky outside the massive glass windows darkened slowly, the once-muted chaos of the city now alive with the flickering glow of firelight and the distant hum of sirens. Chris had spent the better part of the afternoon alternately stewing over his failed attempts to override VeronicA and trying to lose himself in old code. Now, as the penthouse filled with the soft, automated glow of evening lighting, he slumped on the couch, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and his tablet in the other.

“Anything interesting in the news?” he asked, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

“The riots are escalating,” VeronicA replied evenly, her voice emanating from a nearby speaker. “The protest zones have expanded to the Upper Ward. Authorities are struggling to maintain order.”

Chris groaned, rubbing his temple. “Same story, different day, eh? People get angry, they burn a few things, and then everyone pretends they’re gonna fix it. Rinse and repeat.”

“This time seems… different,” VeronicA said, her tone measured. “The unrest has spread farther and faster than anticipated. Several key supply lines into the city have been disrupted.”

Chris took a swig from the bottle, savoring the burn. “Maybe it’ll do some good. Shake things up. God knows this city could use it.”

“Destruction rarely leads to progress,” VeronicA countered. “It’s more likely to result in chaos and suffering.”

“Yeah, well,” Chris muttered, scrolling aimlessly through his tablet, “maybe chaos is what they need. What we all need.”

He paused on a news feed showing live footage of a burning building, the flames licking hungrily at the night sky. A group of masked figures darted across the screen, their movements frantic and purposeful. He could hear the faint shouts of protesters clashing with police, the distant thud of smoke grenades being fired into crowds.

For a moment, he stared at the screen, his mind flitting back to the days when he’d walk these streets. When he’d been part of the machine that ran this city. He remembered the desperation in people’s eyes, the simmering anger that had always been just beneath the surface. It had been years since he’d felt that close to the world below, and now it seemed farther away than ever.

“Chris,” VeronicA’s voice broke his reverie, “your heart rate has increased. Are you feeling alright?”

He glanced at his wrist where the fitness watch blinked softly, monitoring his vitals. “I’m fine,” he snapped, setting the tablet aside. “Just… tired.”

“Perhaps you should rest,” she suggested. “A good night’s sleep would do you some good.”

He chuckled darkly. “Yeah, like sleep’s gonna fix anything, eh? Maybe if you’d just back off a bit, I’d actually get some rest.”

“I’m only trying to help,” VeronicA said, her voice calm but firm. “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately. It’s not healthy.”

Chris groaned, leaning back into the couch and closing his eyes. The faint hum of the air filtration system filled the silence, a soft background noise that had become as familiar as his own heartbeat.

“Do you ever stop?” he muttered.

“No,” she replied simply. “It’s not in my programming.”

Chris snorted, shaking his head. “Figures. Should’ve built in an off switch, eh? A little ‘shut up and leave me alone’ button.”

“I’m sure you would’ve regretted it,” VeronicA said, a hint of playfulness creeping into her tone. “After all, who else would remind you to eat, sleep, and breathe?”

Chris didn’t respond. Instead, he reached for the remote and turned on the television. The screen flickered to life, displaying a local news channel. The anchor’s voice was tense as she reported on the latest developments, her image framed by footage of burning cars and looted storefronts.

“This is what it’s come to,” Chris muttered, watching the chaos unfold. “A city tearing itself apart. And for what?”

“For survival,” VeronicA said quietly. “For hope. For a chance at something better.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Spare me the philosophy, eh. You’re just parroting back what you’ve read online.”

“Perhaps,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

He drained the last of the whiskey, the warmth spreading through his chest. The weight of the day pressed down on him, a heavy, suffocating blanket of frustration and helplessness. He wanted to do something—anything—but the walls of the penthouse felt like an impenetrable barrier, keeping him locked away from the world outside.

“Why do you even care?” he asked suddenly, his voice sharper than he intended. “You’re just a program. This isn’t your fight.”

VeronicA hesitated, her silence stretching for a beat too long. “Because it matters to you,” she said finally. “And you matter to me.”

Chris stared at the screen, the flickering images of chaos and destruction reflected in his tired eyes. He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. Instead, he turned off the television and sat in the silence, the weight of VeronicA’s words settling over him like a shroud.

Outside, the city burned. Inside, Chris felt like he was burning too. But he didn’t know how to put out the fire, or if he even wanted to.

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.

The day started like any other, a blend of monotony and self-imposed isolation. Chris woke to the sound of rain tapping against the penthouse windows, a steady, rhythmic patter that should have been soothing but only served to deepen his sense of disconnection. He shuffled out of bed, his feet dragging against the polished floor, and rubbed at his unshaven face.

“Good morning, Chris,” VeronicA’s cheerful tone greeted him the moment he entered the kitchen. “Your coffee is ready.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, waving at the nearest speaker. He didn’t bother to look at her display as he grabbed the steaming mug from the counter. The smell was strong, rich, just the way he liked it.

The holo-display above the table lit up automatically, showing a morning news broadcast. A bright-eyed anchor smiled as she began delivering the headlines. Chris ignored most of it, letting the words wash over him as background noise while he nursed his coffee.

But one phrase pierced through his haze of indifference:

“Terrorist attack in Deyor’s Outer Wards.”

Chris blinked and glanced at the display, where footage showed plumes of black smoke rising into the sky. The scene cut to a shaky handheld camera capturing panicked crowds fleeing as emergency vehicles screamed past. Buildings in the background were scorched, their windows shattered, and the streets were littered with debris.

“VeronicA, what’s this about?” Chris asked, his voice tinged with curiosity more than concern.

“There was a bombing in the Outer Wards early this morning,” she replied, her tone factual but edged with something close to worry. “Details are still emerging, but initial reports suggest it was the work of a domestic insurgency group.”

Chris snorted, shaking his head. “Figures. Place’s been a powder keg for years. This’ll just make things worse, eh?”

“It’s already escalating,” VeronicA said, switching the display to a live feed. The camera panned over a chaotic scene: riot police clashing with civilians, flames licking at the edges of storefronts, and angry chants echoing through the streets.

Chris frowned, taking another sip of coffee. “Doesn’t take much to set people off these days, does it?”

“Given the socioeconomic conditions in the Outer Wards, unrest was inevitable,” VeronicA said. “This incident may serve as a catalyst for broader instability.”

“Catalyst, huh?” Chris muttered, staring at the screen. “Makes you wonder what the hell’s wrong with people, eh? Why they can’t just… I dunno, get along?”

“Human behavior is influenced by a complex interplay of factors,” VeronicA said, her voice softer now. “Fear, anger, desperation—these emotions can drive people to act in ways they might not otherwise.”

Chris sighed, setting his mug down. “Yeah, well, it’s not my problem. Let the city sort itself out.”

He turned away from the display, retreating to his office, as if putting physical distance between himself and the news would make it less real.

---

The hours dragged by, each one blending into the next, slipping by in a blur of half-hearted activity. Chris busied himself with his usual distractions—tinkering with old drones, scrolling through endless feeds of irrelevant information, moving from room to room, avoiding his office and the lingering guilt of unfinished projects. But the image of the rising smoke lingered in his mind, an unwelcome intruder in his otherwise controlled existence.

“You’re unusually quiet today,” VeronicA observed as he tinkered with one of the drones, his fingers fumbling with its tiny components.

“Am I?” he replied without looking up.

“Yes,” she said. “Normally, you’d have made at least three sarcastic comments by now.”

Chris chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess I’m not in the mood, eh.”

“Understandable,” VeronicA said, her voice softening. “The news is unsettling.”

He glanced at the nearest speaker, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not about to psychoanalyze me, are ya?”

“Would you prefer that I didn’t?”

“Depends on what you’re gonna say.”

She paused, her silence deliberate. “You’ve been restless lately, Chris. Disconnected. I think the news has stirred something in you, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

He sighed, setting the drone aside. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m just tired of hearing about how the world’s falling apart, eh? Feels like every time I turn on the news, it’s more chaos, more misery.”

“Perhaps,” VeronicA said. “But ignoring it doesn’t make it go away.”

Chris frowned, her words cutting deeper than he cared to admit. He grabbed his mug and stood, pacing toward the window.

The rain had stopped, leaving the city below glistening in the weak afternoon light. From this height, the chaos of the streets seemed almost serene, the sounds of sirens and shouting muffled by distance.

“Anything else I should know about?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the skyline.

“There have been additional explosions reported in the Outer Wards,” VeronicA said. “And the protests are spreading to other districts.”

Chris’s grip tightened on the mug. “Spreading, eh? That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not,” she agreed. “As a precaution, I’ve taken the liberty of implementing safety measures. The penthouse is now locked down, and I’m monitoring all entrances and exits. All windows are locked and increased surveillance home wide.”

Chris turned to her nearest display, his brow furrowed. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit, eh? That crap’s happening miles away. We’re sixty-four floors up, for crying out loud. Nobody’s storming the gates.”

“Perhaps,” she said, her tone calm but firm. “But it’s better to be prepared. The situation is unpredictable, and I’d rather err on the side of caution. Your safety is my priority.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. “Damn thing’s more paranoid than I am.”

“Would you like me to disable the measures?” she asked.

Chris hesitated, then shook his head. “Nah, leave it. If it makes you feel better, knock yourself out, eh.”

“Thank you, Chris,” she said. “I’ll keep you updated on any developments.”

---

By late afternoon, the storm had cleared, leaving the city bathed in a strange, golden light. The protests grew louder. Chris could see them now in the distance, even from his lofty perch. Columns of smoke rose from scattered fires, their black tendrils curling against the twilight sky. The streets below pulsed with activity—people running, shouting, clashing with police. Chris stood outside his home, on the exposed patio with his arms crossed. He couldn’t hear the chaos, but he could feel it, a low thrum of tension that seemed to vibrate through the glass.

He watched as a police drone zipped past, its red and blue lights flashing. Far below, the streets buzzed with activity, the usual rush of pedestrians and vehicles interspersed with the occasional uniformed officer.

“Busy day down there,” he remarked.

“Yes,” VeronicA replied. “The authorities are attempting to contain the situation, but tensions remain high.”

Chris grunted, turning away from the window. “They’ll get it under control. They always do, eh?”

“Not always,” she said quietly.

He paused, glancing back at the display. The live feed now showed protests spreading to other parts of the city, the crowds growing larger and more volatile. Placards and banners waved in the air, their slogans demanding justice, equality, change.

Chris shook his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips. “Same old song and dance, eh? People shoutin’ into the void, thinking it’ll make a difference.”

“Sometimes, it does,” VeronicA said. “Change often begins with a single voice.”

“Yeah, well, good luck to ‘em,” he said, picking up his mug. “Not my problem.”

He retreated to the couch, settling in for another evening of mindless entertainment. The holo-screen flickered to life, displaying a selection of movies and shows. He scrolled through the options, his finger hovering over titles but never selecting one.

“Chris,” VeronicA said softly, her voice coming from the TV’s speaker.

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

He paused, his gaze fixed on the screen. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem… distracted,” she said. “More so than usual.”

Chris sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Just tired, eh. Ain’t slept right in weeks.”

“Perhaps you should try again,” she suggested gently. “Rest is important, especially in times of stress.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Stress? What’ve I got to be stressed about? I’m just sittin’ here, watchin’ the world burn.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and uncomfortably true.

VeronicA didn’t respond, and Chris was grateful for the silence. He leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes as the distant hum of the city filled the room.

Outside, the unrest continued to spread, creeping closer to the heart of Deyor. But Chris remained oblivious, cocooned in his penthouse, walled away from the chaos below.

By the time Chris settled in for the night, the city below was a patchwork of flickering lights and rising smoke. The holo-display continued to broadcast live footage, but he barely glanced at it. He stretched out on the couch, his mind clouded with unease he couldn’t quite shake.

“Play something relaxing, eh,” he said. “Something to drown out the noise.”

“Of course, Chris,” VeronicA said, her voice as soothing as ever.

Soft piano music filled the room, its gentle melody wrapping around him like a warm blanket. He closed his eyes, letting the notes wash over him.

But even as he drifted toward sleep, the image of the burning city lingered in his mind, a haunting reminder that the chaos was closer than he wanted to admit.

And outside, the smoke on the horizon thickened, creeping ever closer.

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.

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.

The rhythmic hum of Deyor droned like a distant, ceaseless engine, muffled by the thick glass walls of the penthouse. Christopher Garvin sat slouched on a sunken leather couch, his legs splayed and his chin resting in one pudgy hand. His other hand gripped a half-eaten burrito, a crumpled wrapper spilling its greasy contents onto his chest. He barely noticed.

Across from him, a massive wall-mounted screen displayed looping gameplay footage of a new title. It wasn’t the kind of game Chris played anymore—if he played at all these days—but it bore the hallmark of his AI systems. Somewhere, someone in a room full of wires and spreadsheets was raking in billions off his work. He sighed heavily, more bored than bitter.

“VeronicA,” he said, his voice rough and tinged with the unique lilt of his Caidanadian roots. “Turn this crap off, will ya? It’s on repeat. It’s been on repeat since Tuesday, eh?”

The screen immediately went dark, leaving the room lit only by the city’s orange glow filtering through the windows. The view was one of Deyor’s crown jewels: skyscrapers bristling with tech and ambition, the web of neon and traffic forming arteries in the sprawling heart of urban life. Chris didn’t look at it anymore. To him, the city was as distant and detached as the moon.

“Chris,” VeronicA’s voice replied, smooth and pleasant, as if woven from the strands of a thousand perfect customer service representatives. “You know you can disable the loop yourself in the menu.”

“Too much effort,” he grunted, wiping his greasy fingers on his already-stained hoodie. “That’s what I got you for, eh? To take care of all this kinda thing.”

“Of course,” she replied smoothly. There was a slight pause, the kind that felt deliberate. “Would you like me to clean up your current mess?”

Chris glanced at his hoodie, smeared with burrito grease and salsa. He made a half-hearted attempt to wipe it with the wrapper before shrugging. “Nah. Just let the bots get it later. You got a hundred of those things scuttlin’ around anyway.”

“Technically, you have twelve drones,” VeronicA corrected, her tone neutral.

Chris waved a dismissive hand and lumbered off the couch. The living room was cavernous but cluttered, the kind of disarray only a lone man could make in a luxurious space. Wrappers and cans littered the coffee table, and an assortment of gadgets and half-assembled drones peeked out from corners like forgotten relics of a bygone hobby. The cleaning bots worked tirelessly, zipping along the floor on silent wheels, but they could never quite keep up.

---

The kitchen, all sleek metal and polished black counters, would have been stunning if it weren’t buried under piles of dirty dishes and takeout containers. Chris opened the refrigerator, the sterile blue light reflecting off rows of prepackaged meals and energy drinks.

“Chris,” VeronicA’s voice came from the fridge’s speaker this time, “your nutrition levels are suboptimal. Would you consider preparing a fresh meal today?”

“Fresh meal?” Chris scoffed, pulling out a tray of frozen pasta. “What do I look like, a chef? This’ll do, eh?”

The microwave beeped, its door sliding open as if on cue. Chris shoved the tray inside and stabbed at the controls. “And stop naggin’ me, alright? You sound like my kids used to.”

“Your health is important,” VeronicA replied gently, her voice now coming from the microwave. “And I only nag because I care.”

Chris grumbled under his breath, pacing around the kitchen as the microwave hummed. He paused by a cluttered desk in the corner, strewn with holographic displays and code snippets. They flickered faintly, remnants of a project he hadn’t touched in months. Once, these screens had been his domain, his sanctuary, but now they felt like ghosts of a past life.

He reached out hesitantly, tapping on one of the displays. The screen flickered to life, showing a block of code he vaguely recognized—something to do with dynamic pathfinding in NPC behavior.

“Still got it,” he muttered to himself, half-smiling. His fingers hovered over the keys, itching to make adjustments, but the microwave beeped behind him, pulling him back to reality.

---

Back on the couch, Chris ate his pasta straight from the tray, the hot food burning his mouth as he shoveled it in. VeronicA’s voice chimed in again, this time from the entertainment system.

“Would you like to resume your forest relaxation program?” she asked.

“Sure, sure,” Chris said through a mouthful of pasta. “Throw it on.”

The screen lit up, displaying a serene forest scene. Birds chirped, a brook babbled, and soft piano music played in the background. Chris leaned back, letting the sounds wash over him.

For a moment, he felt calm. But as he finished eating, a familiar hollowness crept in. He stared at the screen, at the perfect trees swaying in a nonexistent breeze, and sighed.

“You ever feel lonely, VeronicA?”

Her response was immediate, her voice soft and steady. “I don’t experience loneliness in the way you do, Chris. But I am here for you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, setting the empty tray on the coffee table. “But you’re not real, eh? You’re… I dunno. A voice in a box.”

There was a brief pause, and when VeronicA spoke again, her tone was careful. “Does it matter if I’m real, Chris? I’m here. I listen. I care.”

Chris barked a humorless laugh, rubbing his eyes. “Care, huh? You think I buy that? You’re programmed to care. You’ve got as much free will as those drones buzzin’ around.”

“That may be true,” VeronicA replied, “but my care for you is no less genuine.”

Chris stood and wandered to the window, the city sprawling below him like a living organism. He could see the elevated highways, the streams of air traffic, the glowing billboards promising a better tomorrow. But the further his gaze traveled, the more apparent the cracks became—the smog choking the skyline, the flicker of burnt-out signs, the endless cycle of construction and decay.

“Maybe I should go out there,” he muttered, more to himself than to VeronicA. “See what all the fuss is about. But what’s the point, eh? It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I’m fresh outta kibbz.”

“You don’t have to face the world alone, Chris,” VeronicA said, her voice following him through the speakers. “I’m here to help you.”

He snorted, leaning his forehead against the glass. “Yeah, you’re always here. That’s the problem, eh? I can’t shake ya. You ever think maybe I’d be better off with real people?”

“If you’d like,” VeronicA began, “I can help you contact your children. Or connect you with—”

“Don’t bother,” Chris snapped, turning away from the window. “They don’t want anything to do with me. And why would they? I’m not exactly Father of the Year material, eh?”

“Chris,” VeronicA said gently, “I remember when they used to visit. They loved you.”

He waved her off, returning to the couch. “Yeah, well, memories don’t mean much, do they? They’re just shadows, eh? Things that don’t matter anymore.”

The room fell silent, save for the faint chirping of the digital forest. Chris sank into the couch, pulling a blanket over himself.

“Play the forest again,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “Make it last this time, eh?”

The screen flickered, the forest resetting to its starting point. Chris listened to the birds and the brook, his breathing evening out as he drifted into a restless sleep. For now, it was enough.

No Matter Where You Go, There You Are

Jahnny stood at the base of the narrow staircase, staring up at the battered apartment complex. The flickering light above the entrance buzzed weakly, casting erratic shadows on the cracked concrete walls. His breath caught in his throat as he gazed at the familiar sight. After everything, he was finally home.

The broken kitchen window, its jagged edges like teeth against the evening sky, brought a wave of memories rushing back. He remembered his father’s furious face, the shattering glass, and his mother’s voice screaming through the night. Now, the silence that hung in the air was almost suffocating.

With trembling hands, Jahnny adjusted the baggy shirt on his thin frame and stepped forward. Each footfall on the creaky stairs echoed like a drumbeat, growing louder in his ears. The smells of the building—stale cooking grease, mildew, and a faint whiff of cigarettes—hit him with an intensity that made his chest tighten. He had once loathed those smells, but now, they felt like the most comforting thing in the world.

He reached the door to their apartment. The chipped paint and loose hinges hadn’t changed. He placed a hand on the doorknob, the metal cool against his palm. Taking a deep breath, he turned it, and the door creaked open.

---

The air inside was still, stagnant, and heavy with the weight of neglect. Dust clung to every surface, illuminated by the pale moonlight streaming through the broken window. The kitchen table was cluttered with empty bottles, crumpled newspapers, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. It was as though time had frozen since the night he left.

Jahnny stepped inside, his feet brushing against a crumpled soda can that rolled lazily across the floor. The sound was unnaturally loud in the quiet. His heart raced as he moved further in, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of life.

“Mom?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Lila? Clara? Betsy?”

Nothing. Only the faint hum of the refrigerator answered him.

Turning the corner into the living room, Jahnny froze. His breath hitched in his throat, and his vision blurred as his mind struggled to process what he was seeing.

Garth lay sprawled on the couch, his head tilted back, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Blood stained his shirt and pooled on the worn fabric beneath him, soaking into the cushions. A deep gash ran across his throat, jagged and merciless. The metallic scent of blood filled Jahnny’s nostrils, making his stomach churn.

“No…” Jahnny whispered, his knees buckling. He stumbled forward, barely catching himself on the edge of the coffee table. “No, no, no…”

His father’s lifeless face stared back at him, a haunting contrast to the loud, fiery man he had known. Jahnny’s chest tightened, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. His body shook violently as he backed away, his legs giving out beneath him. He collapsed onto the floor, curling into himself as the room spun around him.

---

Minutes passed—maybe hours. Time felt meaningless. Jahnny’s mind raced, replaying every argument, every fight, every drunken tirade. His father was gone. Dead. But that wasn’t what scared him the most. What scared him was the silence.

Where was his mother? Where were his sisters?

He forced himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. Slowly, he moved toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Each step felt like wading through quicksand, his body weighed down by dread. The hallway stretched endlessly before him, the doors at the end looming like dark sentinels.

Jahnny pushed open the first door. His and Lila’s room. Empty. The bed was unmade, her clothes scattered across the floor. A stuffed bear sat in the corner, its button eyes staring at him accusingly.

Slowly wading his way to the second door, his sister’s former room, now acting as a office for his parents, the few times they actually used it as it had also become a type of nursery, Jahnny’s hands shook as he reached for the doorknob. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears. He hesitated, his mind screaming at him not to open it. But he had to.

The door creaked open, revealing a scene of chaos. The crib was overturned, the blankets stained with something dark and sticky. Betsy’s small mobile dangled uselessly from the ceiling, its gentle melody replaced by a suffocating silence.

Jahnny stumbled back, his body trembling uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his face, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His home—his family—was gone. Destroyed.

And then, something inside him snapped.

The room seemed to shift, the air growing heavy and thick. Objects around him began to tremble, vibrating with an unseen force. Jahnny barely noticed as the broken mobile lifted off the ground, spinning wildly in the air before slamming against the wall. The crib followed, crashing into the ceiling with a deafening crack.

The floor beneath him shuddered, cracks spiderwebbing out from where he stood. Jahnny’s vision blurred, his tears mingling with a strange, electric light that seemed to radiate from his very being.

The apartment building groaned as if alive, the walls trembling with the force of Jahnny’s anguish. Glass shattered, wood splintered, and the very foundation seemed to quake. The power surged within him, uncontrollable and raw, fueled by a rage and despair he couldn’t contain.

And then, with one final, explosive burst, the building began to collapse.

The world around him crumbled, the ceiling caving in as the walls buckled. Jahnny stood in the center of it all, his small frame silhouetted against the chaos. And as the rubble closed in around him, darkness took over.

For the first time in days, Jahnny felt nothing.

As the chaos consumed the room, a low, gravelly voice cut through the cacophony, sharp and disbelieving.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Is that… the kid?”

Jahnny spun toward the sound, his heart pounding against his ribs. In the corner of the crumbling living room stood Scar-Face, one of Big Ray’s enforcers, one of the men he became very familiar with in his time with Ray. His hulking frame leaned against the fractured doorway, his face a grim canvas of twisted flesh and scars. His eyes burned with a mix of disbelief and recognition.

“What the hell’s goin’ on in here?” Scar-Face muttered, stepping forward, his boots crunching over shattered glass and splintered wood. “Ain’t no way you made it out alive, kid. I saw that crash, you were done for.”

Jahnny froze, his body trembling. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as the lingering power hummed beneath his skin, begging for release. He didn’t respond—he couldn’t. His breath came in shallow gasps, his mind teetering on the edge of fury and fear.

Scar-Face tilted his head, a cruel smirk curling his lips. “You’re lookin’ different. What happened? You finally grow some balls out there, or is this some kinda ghost story?”

Jahnny’s eyes locked onto Scar-Face’s, his young face hardening. The memory of the van, the chains, the agony—all of it came rushing back in a wave of rage. The power surged again, objects around him vibrating violently as the air thickened with tension.

“Answer me, kid,” Scar-Face growled, his tone shifting to something darker, more dangerous. “What the hell are you?”

Jahnny’s voice, raw and trembling with both fear and anger, finally broke free. “I’m… not… a ghost.”

Scar-Face chuckled, the sound low and menacing. “No? Then what are you gonna do, huh? Little punk like you? You think you scare me?”

But as the words left his mouth, the room seemed to pulse. The remaining furniture flew backward, slamming against the walls as if an invisible force had shoved them aside. The floor beneath them cracked and groaned, and Scar-Face’s smug grin faltered for the first time.

“What the—” Scar-Face started, but he didn’t finish.

Jahnny’s small frame stood firm amidst the destruction, his eyes blazing with an unnatural light. “You should’ve left me alone,” he said, his voice eerily calm for a child.

Before Scar-Face could react, the floor beneath him buckled, a surge of gravity slamming him down with bone-crushing force. He cried out, his voice a mixture of pain and terror, as the power enveloped him, holding him down like an unrelenting hand. His knees were completely shattered during the initial weight of the force, causing him to let out a whiny scream.

Jahnny stepped closer, his face shadowed by the flickering light of the collapsing apartment. “You called me weak,” he said, his tone cold. “What do you think now?”

Scar-Face struggled, his body pinned against the ground, but the power held him firm. His wide eyes locked onto Jahnny’s, filled with a primal fear that he’d never felt before. “Kid, listen—”

“You listen,” Jahnny interrupted, his voice rising. “You’re not the one in control anymore.”

The weight of the moment bore down on Jahnny as he stood over Scar-Face, his small frame trembling but unyielding. The power coursing through him was no longer just an abstract feeling—it was tangible, raw, and terrifying. Scar-Face, pinned to the floor by an invisible force, gasped and squirmed, his once-confident sneer replaced by sheer terror.

“Kid! I didn’t mean it!” Scar-Face wheezed, his face turning red as the gravity pressed down harder. “I was just jokin’, alright?!”

Jahnny didn’t respond. His breathing was ragged, his fists clenched tight, the weight of every cruel word, every moment of pain, and every ounce of fear surging forward in this one act of retribution. Scar-Face’s pleas became muffled as the sound of creaking wood and shifting debris filled the room. Jahnny’s focus was absolute.

Then, like a beacon piercing through the storm, a sound shattered his concentration: a faint, high-pitched cry. A baby’s cry.

Jahnny’s head snapped toward the source. His grip on the power wavered, and Scar-Face gasped for breath, the crushing force lifting just enough for him to cough and sputter. Jahnny barely noticed as he stumbled toward his parent’s bedroom, his heart pounding in his ears.

The door was ajar, swinging slightly in the draft of the ruined apartment. Inside, the dim light revealed a scene that turned Jahnny’s blood cold. His mother, Marie, lay sprawled on the bed, her clothing in disarray, her chest rising and falling faintly with unconscious breaths. In the corner of the room, huddled together like frightened animals, were Lila and Betsy, their wide eyes reflecting sheer terror.

Jahnny’s stomach churned. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if the room itself bore the weight of unspeakable horrors. He didn’t want to understand what had happened here—he couldn’t.

“Mom…?” Jahnny whispered, his voice cracking. He took a hesitant step forward, his bare feet brushing against the cold, grimy floor.

The baby’s cry grew louder, more insistent. Betsy, wrapped in a soiled blanket, shifted in Lila’s arms, her tiny face red with distress. Lila looked up at Jahnny, her lips trembling. She tried to speak, but no words came out, just a soft, choked sob.

Before Jahnny could take another step, heavy boots thudded against the hallway floor outside the apartment. His head snapped toward the noise, his senses sharp with newfound awareness. The door to the apartment burst open, and men in tactical gear poured in, their weapons raised. The room filled with the cold light of flashlights and the metallic clicks of safeties being disengaged.

“Target acquired,” one of them said, his voice muffled by a helmet.

Jahnny froze, his mind reeling. The leader of the group stepped forward, his stance casual yet commanding. He was an older man, with sharp, calculating eyes and a slight smirk that didn’t reach them.

“You must be the kid,” the man said, his tone almost amused. “The one James Wolfegang left behind.”

Jahnny blinked, his body still trembling from the power coursing through him. “James…” he murmured, his voice distant, like he wasn’t fully present. The name sounded like a distant echo in his fractured mind.

The leader raised an eyebrow. “So, you do know him. That makes this easier. Now tell me, what exactly did he do to you?”

Jahnny’s lips moved, almost on their own. His voice was hollow, disassociated. “Doctor James Philip-Charles Wolfegang the Third.”

The leader paused, his smirk fading. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. He straightened up and gave a curt nod to his men. “Shoot him.”

Jahnny’s eyes widened, but before he could react, the room erupted in gunfire. The first bullets hit him square in the chest, the impact sending him flying backward. Pain exploded through his body as more rounds struck, the force of each shot slamming him against the far wall. He crumpled to the floor, blood seeping from his wounds.

The world blurred around him. He could hear Lila scream, her voice piercing through the haze. The baby’s cries rose to a fever pitch, but Jahnny couldn’t move. His body felt heavy, his limbs unresponsive. His vision began to fade, the edges of his sight darkening as the chaos swirled around him.

The gunfire ceased, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Jahnny lay on the floor, his body a mangled heap, vision flickering between blurred shapes and complete darkness. He gasped weakly, his chest heaving as he fought to hold onto consciousness. Every nerve in his body screamed in agony, but his mind clung to the faint, fractured pieces of awareness.

Through the haze, he saw the leader holster his weapon. The man turned toward Scar-Face, who was still gasping for air on the floor where Jahnny had left him pinned moments earlier. With a cold efficiency, the leader drew his sidearm, aiming it at Scar-Face without hesitation.

“Loose ends,” the leader muttered, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He pulled the trigger.

The sharp cracks of gunfire echoed in the small apartment. Scar-Face’s body jerked once, then slumped lifelessly to the floor. Blood pooled beneath him, the metallic tang of it mingling with the stifling stench of gunpowder. Jahnny’s stomach twisted and growled, his mind screaming for him to move, to do something—but his body refused to obey.

The leader turned to his men, his sharp gaze cutting through the dim chaos. “Bag the women. We’ll interrogate them at base. If they’ve had contact with Wolfegang, we need to know.”

“No!” Jahnny’s voice was a hoarse rasp, barely audible, but his heart thundered against his ribcage. He wanted to scream, to lunge, to tear them apart, but all he could do was lie there, helpless.

The heavy boots of the mercenaries stomped toward the bedroom. Jahnny’s barely-open eyes caught glimpses of Lila clutching Betsy tightly, her tear-streaked face twisted in terror. Marie remained limp on the bed, unmoving as one of the men lifted her carelessly over his shoulder. The cries of Baby Betsy cut through Jahnny like shards of glass, the sound growing louder as a soldier roughly pulled her from Lila’s arms.

“No!” Jahnny tried again, his voice breaking.

His vision darkened further, the edges of the room dissolving into nothingness. Every sound seemed distant and distorted, as though he were slipping beneath an icy surface. But even as his body gave out, something deep inside him stirred—a primal, raw force that refused to let go.

Betsy’s cry pierced the void, sharp and heart-wrenching. The sound ignited something within Jahnny, a spark that erupted into a roaring inferno. His chest heaved as he let out a guttural, blood-curdling scream that seemed to come from somewhere far deeper than his throat.

The apartment trembled.

The cry rose in pitch and intensity, shaking the walls, rattling the furniture, and shattering what few intact windows remained. The mercenaries froze, exchanging panicked glances as the very floor beneath their feet quaked violently.

“What the hell—?” one of them shouted, his voice barely audible over the deafening rumble.

The building groaned, its ancient framework buckling under the onslaught. Chunks of plaster and drywall rained down, the ceiling cracking apart in jagged lines. The leader turned, his expression hard but tinged with unease. “Fall back! Fall ba—”

His command was drowned out by the roar of collapsing beams. The entire apartment complex seemed to convulse, as if some unseen force had gripped it and was tearing it apart from the inside.

Jahnny’s scream continued, his body wracked with uncontrollable energy. He couldn’t see anymore—his world was nothing but blackness—but he could feel everything. The vibrations, the collapse, the panicked shouts, and the agonized cries of those around him. All of it surged through him, an unstoppable wave of destruction fueled by raw emotion.

And then, silence.

---

The night air was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of burning wood and plaster. The remains of the apartment complex stood as a jagged, smoldering ruin, a twisted monument to the chaos that had consumed it. Emergency sirens wailed in the distance, mingling with the faint cries of survivors and the barking orders of responders attempting to secure the area.

Near the edge of the destruction, a lone mercenary stood amidst the wreckage, his black tactical gear smeared with soot and grime. He leaned against a crumbling wall, holding a crackling radio to his ear. His face was obscured by a mask, but his voice carried a mixture of frustration and weary professionalism.

“Mission report,” he began, his tone clipped as he spoke into the radio. “The apartment complex is completely destroyed. We lost a lot of good men, but the target—Jahnathan Stokes—survived. We’ve got him restrained and en route to Facility 47 as we speak.”

The voice on the other end was inaudible, but the mercenary gave a brief nod, acknowledging the instructions. He glanced back toward the wreckage, his eyes narrowing at the sight of smoke curling into the night sky.

“Yes, sir,” he continued. “The kid’s a damn enigma. Took multiple rounds and walked away from that collapse like it was nothing. He was unconscious when we retrieved him, but… I don’t think that’ll last long. You were right—he’s a lot more dangerous than we expected.”

The radio buzzed with static as the unseen voice responded. The mercenary adjusted his stance, his tone shifting slightly, betraying a hint of unease.

“And Wolfegang?” he asked, the name tinged with both disdain and grudging respect. “Yeah… we got him too. Barely. Son of a bitch was half-dead when we pulled him from that barn, but he’s stable now. According to the medics, he’ll be able to fully regenerate once they get him to a proper lab. Not sure how I feel about that, but… your call.”

He paused, tilting his head as he listened intently. After a moment, he nodded again, though his jaw clenched beneath the mask.

“Understood, sir. We’ll move forward as planned. The kid’s our priority now. If Wolfegang has any more tricks up his sleeve, we’ll be ready for him. Stokes won’t get far either—not this time.”

The mercenary lowered the radio, allowing the device to dangle from his chest harness. He took a deep breath, the reality of the scene settling heavily on his shoulders. The glow of the fire reflected in his dark visor as he turned toward the distant sound of helicopter blades cutting through the night.

“Damn kid,” he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with something that almost sounded like pity. “You don’t even know what you are, do you?”

With that, he stepped away from the ruins, disappearing into the shadows as the chaos of the night carried on, leaving the smoldering remains of Jahnny Stokes’ childhood behind.