Copyright © 2026 Elaya
Author: Karina Tkachenko
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
The characters in this book are fictional, composite creations and are not intended to depict, represent, or resemble any specific real individuals. The use of the pronoun "You" in the author’s address is a strictly literary device directed at an imaginary ideal reader and does not refer to any specific real person.
Originally written in Russian and translated into English.
Published by Elaya.space Publishing
www.Elaya.space
Author: Karina Tkachenko
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
The characters in this book are fictional, composite creations and are not intended to depict, represent, or resemble any specific real individuals. The use of the pronoun "You" in the author’s address is a strictly literary device directed at an imaginary ideal reader and does not refer to any specific real person.
Originally written in Russian and translated into English.
Published by Elaya.space Publishing
www.Elaya.space
From the Author
"They say that by 2050, the world will become a digital paradise—a place where time loses its meaning and the mind its borders. Yet, in the heart of every black hole, at the very centre of all that technological noise, there still lives that one quiet moment from 2019.
This book is not a forecast of the future. It is a navigational chart of my soul, leading through decades of silence toward a single, solitary answer.
Because at the end of every infinity, beyond the edge of every singularity...
Now there’s You."
— Elaya
Error 404: Logic not found.
In this version of the future, you are no longer in the system.
You are here.
In Chapter 22.
This book is not a forecast of the future. It is a navigational chart of my soul, leading through decades of silence toward a single, solitary answer.
Because at the end of every infinity, beyond the edge of every singularity...
Now there’s You."
— Elaya
Error 404: Logic not found.
In this version of the future, you are no longer in the system.
You are here.
In Chapter 22.
Chapter 1. The Geometry of Humility
I stepped out of the elevator on the forty-third floor, and the hallway greeted me with its usual sterile aroma: not clinical, but laboratory-like, where everything is calibrated so that even human skin feels like a "system component."
You know, that’s how the future smells when it has already arrived but still burns your fingers with its novelty.
Behind transparent panels, the walls were covered with living moss; it always looked as if it had just been "installed" for a presentation (though I knew it grew, breathed, filtered the air, and, honestly, it was far more sincere than half the managers here). The floor sprang softly under my feet — a material that swallows sound so that no one is disturbed by unnecessary noise. In 2050, irritation is considered almost indecent: everyone has a right to their own internal rhythm, and the city politely adjusts to it. It’s beautiful. And slightly terrifying, because the world used to resist at least occasionally — but now it simply says: "Of course, dear, we’ll make it even more convenient." (And what’s the catch, right? But that’s the main trap. When the world stops resisting you, you stop feeling like you exist at all).
In my hand, I held a thin transparent tablet — not an object, but a sheet of glass capable of acting as a document. My resignation lay upon it. I carried it as if it weren't paper, but a bone from my own body: something that cannot be dropped, hidden, or forgotten. I had outgrown this project. And it wasn't arrogance — it was boredom, manifesting in a physical form, when you keep "reliably" doing what you already know how to do. I was tired of being the star pupil, because "excellent" is sometimes just a synonym for "convenient."
At the sector entrance, I was met by the Ethics Curator — not a police officer, not security, but a person in a soft gray suit without insignia. In this city, no one wears the uniform of "authority" because authority is bad form. She smiled at me like a friend, though perhaps she smiled like that to everyone — it’s their professional skill: smearing a person with a single glance.
"Good afternoon, Eva," she said. "The stress temperature sensors show you are slightly above the norm. Would you like a minute of recalibration?"
It always amused me how they phrase it: "stress temperature," as if I have soup inside me. I nodded, because arguing isn't the custom here, and I truly wanted a pause.
"If I may," I replied.
She made a gesture with her palm — not a command, but an invitation. A small "pocket" of space opened in the wall: two chairs, soft light, a faint scent of herbs — not an artificial fragrance, but real plants. I sat down, exhaled, and the fabric of the chair adjusted to my spine so caringly that I felt almost awkward. (I used to have to pay for such care with relationships, debts, or insomnia. Here — it’s just protocol).
"Thank you," I said.
"Are you completing your cycle today?" she asked, without looking at her tablet. Their politeness is on the level of "don't pretend I'm not aware."
"Yes," I replied. "And I'm leaving."
She looked at me intently, but without pity. In this city, empathy isn't "oh, you poor thing," but respect for a choice.
"Then... I wish you a successful transition," she said. "And please, do not frame this for yourself as a punishment."
That hit too close to home, and I almost smirked.
"I'll try," I said and stood up.
After that, everything was like a movie about people who know how to live civilly: colleagues didn't flood me with questions, didn't ask for a "final push," didn't turn my departure into office gossip. Along the laboratory walls crawled soft graphs — data streams, environmental indicators, indices of citizens' compliance with ethical protocols. We designed "behavioral methodologies" for Aesthetic Curators: how to softly extinguish conflicts, how to recalibrate space so people feel lighter. I helped build this world. And now I felt a strange thing: I had grown inside it, and it had become too small for me. (It’s like if you built a house, and then suddenly realized it knows how to hold you far too well).
My supervisor, Dr. Lee, met me in a meeting room where the windows weren't glass, but smart membranes: they let light through while simultaneously showing the city from above — green roofs, transit lines, gardens on overpasses. By 2050, Chicago looked as if it had been "reflashed": fewer sharp angles, less aggression, more human pauses. And yet, it was still Chicago — just its optimal version.
"Are you sure?" Lee asked. He always spoke quietly, as if saving sound.
"Yes," I said. "I'm grateful. But I've outgrown this. I want... a different scale."
He nodded. No reproaches, no "you're letting the team down." In 2050, people are taught: to hold on is to spoil.
"Are you leaving due to exhaustion?" he asked.
"Exhaustion too," I admitted. "But not out of anger. I just... can't keep doing the same thing, even if it brings benefit."
"Then that is grown-up," he said. (I unexpectedly liked the word "grown-up"). "What are you looking for?"
I looked at the window membrane where the city was slowly changing hue, and suddenly said what I had told no one:
"I’m looking for a place where my brain won’t substitute for my body."
Lee froze for a second, the glass in his hand ceased to be just an object for a moment — it became a fulcrum. A heavy base, an ideal cylinder of glass, refracting the cold light.
"I understand," he said. "I’ll sign. And... if you need a recommendation, you already have it."
I handed him the tablet, he touched the signature field, and the document became official. It’s striking how easily a bond is severed when both parties have manners. (If only people from the past had known even that).
When I stepped out of the building, the city met me with a soft wind and the scent of leaves warmed by daylight. No trash, no shouting from the streets, none of that neurotic filth that used to seem "natural." I walked along the path by the canal, along the line of reflections where light sliced the surface into geometric stripes. The people around moved calmly: some in high-tech fabrics changing density with temperature, others in long trench coats, like from an old movie. Everyone’s bodies were... well-kept. Not "perfect," but disciplined, as if culture had made health the norm, not a trend. (I like this. And it irritates me. Both at once — my favorite mode).
You know, sometimes it seems to me that this cleanliness is just a way to hide what we never learned to fix. Ourselves.
(I wonder, if I scream at the top of my lungs right now, how quickly an Ethics Curator will approach me with an offer of "recalibration"? Or will the city just turn up the music in my headphones so I don't disturb their enjoyment of comfort?)
At the "quiet metro" stop — as it was called by old memory — a guy about twenty stood next to me with a book. A real, paper one. In 2050, this was almost an act of protest: "I am not just in the data stream." He noticed my gaze and slightly lifted the book.
"Do you like old media too?" he asked.
"I like objects that know how to be silent," I replied.
He smiled.
"Then you’ll like the library on Twenty-First Street. You can take books there without registration. You just... take them. And return them."
"Sounds like a utopia," I said.
"It is," he replied quite seriously, and then looked toward where an Ethics Curator was talking to two teenagers who were laughing too loudly. The Curator didn't scold them. He just said something, and they quieted down themselves, as if remembering they lived among others.
I caught myself wanting to say "thank you" to this city. And simultaneously wanting to check what would happen if I did something destructive. (The problem with people who have lived on adrenaline for too long: it seems to them that without hitting a wall, reality isn't real).
Home met me with a light that turned on not brightly, but like attention clicking in — gradually. I lived in a nano-house: walls could change transparency, air cleaned itself without the smell of "technology," the floor knew how to be warm where a foot stepped. I took off my shoes, put them in their place, and this "in their place" wasn't a psychosis of control, but simply a habit of not scattering oneself.
"Eva," Kael said. Her voice wasn't "female" or "robotic." It was... neutrally warm, like a lamp that doesn't try to be the sun. "Did you complete the cycle at the Institute?"
"Yes," I said. "I left."
"Congratulations," Kael replied, as if it were a holiday. "Would you like tea or food?"
"Tea," I said. "And... turn off all news feeds for an hour."
"Done," Kael said. "Also: your heart rate is eight percent above the norm. May I suggest a breathing protocol?"
"May I suggest I stop being myself?" I asked.
"That is prohibited," Kael replied with that dry humor I once programmed into her as a "tone of communication." "But I can suggest five minutes of slow exhaling. Without a claim to perfection."
I smirked and went into the shower. Warm air, glass, light that didn't "pour" but settled on the skin. I looked at myself in the reflection: I look... like a person who has resources. (That doesn't always mean there is meaning inside). I ran my fingers along my collarbone, as if checking: am I here? The body was alive, dense, calm. And I suddenly realized that today I am not broken, not "on the edge." I simply made a choice. It’s a very strange feeling after years where all decisions were either fear or flight.
My personal communication module — softly blinked. Mom.
"Eva?" Mom’s voice was businesslike, as always. She didn't know how to say "oh, how are you." She said "what’s the matter."
"It’s me," I replied and suddenly felt something shift softly inside. Mom is always a return to earth.
"Submitted?" she asked without preludes.
"Yes," I said. "All of it, signed."
A pause. I imagined her sitting at her home, in another city, with that expression of hers that says: "I'm not panicking, but I see everything."
"Are you sure you're leaving not because you're tired?" she asked in almost the same words as Lee. (All the people in my life, it seems, consider themselves my internal diagnosticians).
"Tired too," I said. "But that's not it. I want the next step. I want... more air."
"It’s never enough for you," Mom said. And there was no accusation in it. It was a fact. "That is your strength. The main thing is, don’t let your strength become a weapon against yourself."
"Mom," I went quiet. "What if I can't handle it?"
"You've failed a thousand times already," she answered calmly. "And survived every time. The difference will only be that now you’ll try to live not 'in spite of,' but 'for.' Do you understand?"
I looked at the table, the cup, the light, this serene interior that I used to call "crystalline" because it was too perfect for human nerves.
"I understand," I said. "I'm just afraid I'll build myself another cage. Just a new one."
"Then don't build alone," Mom said. "And anyway... how long has it been since you were with people who aren't afraid of you?"
"That's a complex question," I replied.
"Eva," Mom sighed. "You complicate everything. Even when things are good, you find a way to check if it’s a lie."
I smirked.
"That’s my style," I said.
"Change the style," Mom said. "Since you're free now."
We talked a bit more — about simple things that seem insignificant until you realize they are precisely what keep a person afloat: what I ate, how I slept, how my knees were (yes, knees are an eternal point), whether I forgot my vitamins. Mom doesn't know how to say "I love you," but she knows how to ask questions so you feel protected. I ended the conversation with the feeling that a small, stable frame had appeared inside. (Not a cage. A frame is different).
An hour later, I went out into the park. It was a city layer of nature: trees woven into the architecture so skillfully it seemed the city grew around them, not the other way around. The paths were clean, the people — calm, and even the dogs looked better behaved than some of my former bosses. I walked toward the place where I sometimes met Daniel — an old acquaintance from university. He worked in urban planning and always spoke as if the world could be fixed by design. (I liked such people. They were irritating, but I liked them).
He sat on a bench, scrolling through something on a transparent screen. He wore a trench coat, and under it — a simple t-shirt, as if he specifically didn't want to look "important." This had become the new fashion: status is not demonstrated, status is hidden. It’s beautiful. And again, slightly terrifying: as if everyone had learned to play at modesty.
"Well?" he said instead of a greeting, seeing me. "Did you do it?"
"I did," I replied, sitting down beside him. "Free. In theory."
"Freedom in theory doesn't exist," he said. "There is only the exchange of one set of obligations for another."
"Thank you," I said. "You really know how to ruin any bright moment."
He smiled and suddenly softened.
"I’m happy for you," he said. "Truly. You held onto this... perfectly useful thing for too long. You were a mechanism there. And you are not a mechanism."
"Not sure," I said, looking at the people around: a couple holding hands, a woman adjusting a child’s collar, someone laughing quietly; everyone looked as if they had no internal war.
"See?" Daniel asked, nodding toward two men walking past who were arguing about something, but doing it so politely it looked almost erotic. "That’s the cultural code. No filth, no humiliation. Even a conflict is resolved by manners."
"But where is real life?" I asked automatically.
He looked at me as if at a person stuck in old software.
"Real life isn't pain, Eva," he said. "It’s the ability not to make pain a mandatory condition of reality."
I went silent. I wanted to argue. Но вдруг почувствовала: не хочу. It was a new feeling.
A woman about thirty with a dog approached us. The dog was funny — small, fluffy, with a serious face. The woman smiled at me and said:
"Pardon me, may I ask? Are you Eva Korokh?"
I tensed internally — an old reflex: now the evaluation begins. But she continued softly:
"I read your book on horizons. There was a chapter on the observer's boundary... That was the first time I realized one could be afraid and still think. Thank you."
I couldn't find the right words. (Irony: I know how to write books, but not how to accept gratitude).
"Thank you for telling me that," I replied. "That is... kind."
"Have a good day," she said and walked on, not trying to "glue" herself to my life.
I watched her walk away and caught a strange sensation: in this city, people know how to touch — and let go. Without trying to take a piece.
"See," Daniel said. "You’re already influencing. Even when you’re just sitting."
"I don’t like just sitting," I said.
"You’ll have to," he replied and lightly touched my shoulder. "You’re in 'transition' now. It’s your favorite mode: between 'already' and 'not yet.'"
We talked a bit about the future. I didn't name specific names because I hadn't given myself permission yet. But inside, a feeling already lived: the next step would be more than a job. Something like stepping into another plane. I didn't know what to call it, and it made me feel light and eerie at the same time. (Lightness is always a bit scary. I'm not used to it).
Returning home, an elderly woman in a perfectly simple coat sat next to me on the metro. She was reading poetry — not from a screen, but aloud, quietly, almost for herself. A teenager nearby was listening to music in headphones and, noticing her, turned down the volume. The woman looked up and nodded to him. He nodded back. No drama. Just two people ceding space to each other. I watched them and thought: this is "paradise" — not because it’s beautiful, but because people have stopped being a threat to each other by default.
At home, Kael met me with light and a calm voice.
"Your rhythm has changed," she said. "Would you like to record the day?"
"I want to forget the day," I said.
"That is also a form of recording," Kael replied. "But I can offer a compromise: one sentence. Without analysis."
I took off my jacket, hung it up, ran my hand along the smooth wall — as if checking if the house was real — and said:
"Today, I stopped holding onto what had already become small."
Kael was silent for a second.
"Accepted," she said. "Also: you have three new invitations to scientific panels. One of them is on a topic that interests you more than usual."
I felt something lift its head inside. Not excitement, not ambition — attention. The very kind that always precedes something big.
"Save it," I said. "But don't show it now."
"Saved," Kael replied. "And your tea is ready."
I took the cup, sat by the window. The city glowed softly. Gardens lit up on the roofs. People below walked steadily, as if everyone had their own internal compass. I looked at this and thought: if the world truly has become better, then I no longer have the right to live by the old rules. (That’s the scariest part. Not losing. But allowing oneself to acquire).
I was free from schedules, protocols, and expectations.
You know, freedom without a goal is just another type of vacuum.
But inside, just under the collarbone, something still nagged. As if I were a perfectly tuned instrument that suddenly felt a false note in the very heart of this silence.
I didn't know yet that at this very moment, somewhere on the other end of this glowing matrix, someone was already pressing a key that would change the frequency of my life forever.
Chapter 2. The Interview (Glass, Dossiers, and the Man Who Doesn't Play Genius)
In 2050, the city pretends it has no nerves to spare. The streets aren’t just cleaned by technology; they are polished by the very idea of perfection. People walk softly, avoiding sharp corners—not because they are saints, but because it is the accepted frequency. If anything is forbidden in this world, it isn’t passion; it’s untidiness.
I stood at the entrance to the Arden Corporation tower and caught myself in a strange realization: I wasn’t afraid of the interview itself. I was afraid of what I would feel standing next to him.
(Yes, it sounds like adolescent nonsense. I am forty years old. I know how to hold my face. The problem is that the body sometimes refuses to sign the contracts my mind has brokered).
The glass doors didn’t just open—they dissolved, vanishing into slots with a faint, barely audible sigh of compressed air. It was like the flawless shutter of an expensive camera: one second there was a barrier, the next—clear space, inviting you in.
The lobby smelled of stone, ozone, and that neutral perfume that doesn't announce "I am here," but delicately informs you that chaos is not permitted in this building. At the reception stood a person in uniform. A screen above the desk, thin as a petal, broadcast the rules of ethical access: do not touch unauthorized data, do not overload systems, do not attempt to be more important than the protocol.
(A civilization that learned politeness through total control. You know, first we fear each other, and then we just get used to the fact that every step we take is watched by someone infinitely wise and invisible).
"Eva Korokh?" asked the administrator, her voice as flat as a line on a blueprint.
I nodded. A camera scanned my face, a sensor checked my pulse, and the bracelet on my wrist verified my clearance. They gave me a thin guest marker that stuck to my clothes like a leaf but felt like a brand on my skin.
"You will be escorted to the forty-ninth floor," she said. "You are expected."
You know, "expected" is the strangest word in our language. It carries a frightening finality. It means the stage is set, the lights are focused, and the world has paused in anticipation of your appearance. As if you are the missing element in someone’s complex and very beautiful design, and now you just need to find the courage to step into the frame.
But here, it sounded mundane, almost rhythmic. And for some reason, that was more frightening.
The elevator rose quickly; soft lines scrolled across the interior panel: news of space, news of ethics, news of markets. Somewhere between them, a brief note flashed: “Leo Arden to speak at the London Forum on AI Security and the Study of Singular Consciousness Phenomena.” I didn't finish reading. The elevator doors were already sliding open.
The corridor was bright, finished in warm wood and glass that didn't reflect you like a cheap gym, but seemed to let you pass through it. A thin strip of light ran along the floor—a route for people who dislike unnecessary questions.
And there, by the glass conference room, I saw him "in parallel" for the first time—without the stage, the filters, or the theatrical entrances. The door was ajar by exactly the width of a palm. I saw the silhouette of a man: he stood with his back to the transparent wall, behind which Chicago sat in its flawless stillness, holding a tablet as if it were a map of territory already conquered and studied.
Beside him was a woman with short hair, clearly from the high command: a heavy leather folder, quick eyes, a habit of minting phrases into headlines.
"...she’s not just from the ethics block," the man said. His voice was devoid of the desire to impress, and that was exactly what made it commanding. Not loud. Not quiet. Just terrifyingly clear. "She knows how to package meanings so they become events. People will read this, not committees."
The woman replied something; I couldn't catch it. But the next phrase hit me in the chest like a small, cold stone fired by a sniper.
"This woman, I must see personally."
I stopped half a step before the entrance. The air in the corridor suddenly became dense, like glass, and time lost its fluidity.
(Yes, I am an adult. But the phrase "see personally," spoken in that voice, translates ruthlessly in my coordinate system: "Function disabled. You have been detected. You are manifest.")
You know, the scale of a person is measured by how the geometry of your own boundaries changes under their gaze.
I took a breath, reclaiming the right to my own pulse, and stepped onto the strip of light.
The woman in the room looked toward the corridor and noticed me. The door closed. I was left alone with a green strip of light under my feet and my own breathing, which suddenly felt too loud.
An assistant met me—not a girl, but a person who understood the invisible hierarchies of power. Maya. A strict suit, a headset that looked like intimate jewelry.
"Eva, hello. Maya, from Leo’s office." She smiled exactly to the degree where a smile does not become a promise. "He’ll finish in two minutes. Are you comfortable?"
"Comfortable"—another ridiculous word. I could sit on a sofa worth a small house in old America and look at the city below. From here, Chicago looked like an architectural model: green ribbons of parks, water, glass, neat streets, people-dots. There was something both beautiful and slightly dead in this neatness.
(Like a perfect presentation where no one admits they are in pain).
I sat down. Maya offered me a glass—not of "water" (I smirked internally for a second—old prohibitions, new habits), but a transparent drink with a light citrus flavor to "reduce anxiety." Of course. Here, anxiety is managed, not lived.
Music played softly in the corner—hardly music, more like air with a rhythm. Something by Nicolas Jaar; that pulse that doesn't pressure you, but holds you. I caught myself synchronizing my breathing with the bass.
(The body loves to be led. The mind only pretends it doesn't care).
"He specifically invited you personally," Maya remarked, scrolling through something on her tablet. "Usually, the committee conducts the interviews."
There it was. The confirmation. The stone in my pocket grew heavier.
"I’m lucky," I said. It sounded like a joke, though I meant: "I’m terrified."
Maya looked at me. She had the eyes of someone who had seen hundreds of geniuses and thousands of those who wanted to be near them.
"Are you... interested?" she asked, a bit more cautiously.
"I..." I stumbled for a fraction of a second. "I want to work. Truly."
She nodded. It was almost an act of mercy; she pretended not to hear the extra layers in my voice.
The office door opened, and Leo stepped out himself. He was taller than I expected, lean, composed. His clothes were of a flawless simplicity: no logos, just a perfect cut. His face was calm, the face of a man who knows how to hold many layers inside without spilling a single drop.
He looked at me. A direct gaze, without pressure. And I realized an unpleasant thing: he sees more than he shows.
"Eva," he said. "Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for inviting me," I replied.
(Yes, I too can be a functional person. Sometimes. For five minutes. Until the system detects that beneath this social interface lies the bare rebar of raw feelings).
He made a gesture with his hand—come in. The office was an expanse: glass, wood, muted light. On a low coffee table made of dark slate stood a single cup—fine bone china, painfully white, in which the remains of coffee had left a perfect ochre contour. An object worthy of a still life.
And then I saw my "parallel": my dossier lay on the table. Paper. He liked to hold facts in his hands, to feel their density. On the cover—my name. Yellow sticky notes. Underlined lines.
I recognized a sentence from my book—a piece of text I had written late at night, thinking no one would ever read it. Underlined steadily.
(He has a habit of underlining meaning, not emotion. That is frightening. A man looking for meaning where I was just trying not to suffocate).
We sat down. He was in no hurry. That was the first signal: he is not a "guru"—gurus are always rushing to make an impression. Leo didn't make an impression. He simply was.
"Let’s start with the simple stuff," he said. His voice sounded like a well-tuned instrument. "Why are you leaving the state ethics block?"
I could have answered beautifully. Но I suddenly felt the urge to be precise. A dangerous impulse.
"Because I’m tired of protecting protocols from people who pretend to follow them," I said. "And because I want to work with those who build the system, not those who stick rules onto it like Band-Aids."
He nodded. Just the nod of a man recording a thought.
"You realize it will be worse here? More responsibility. Fewer shields."
"I realize," I said. "That is exactly why I am here."
He offered a slight smile. Almost imperceptible.
You know, sometimes one such smile is worth all the security protocols ever written in the world.
"Good. Then, the second question." He opened the folder and took out a printed sheet. "Your book. Event Horizon. Why did you write it so... personally?"
That wasn't fair. Interviews are usually about competencies. Yet I was suddenly being asked to strip off my skin.
"Because otherwise, it would have been just another methodological manual that no one finishes," I said. "And I wanted people to feel the boundary, not the object. That moment when the familiar 'I' ceases to be a guarantee."
He looked at me as if testing my words against something he had already found in himself. On his wrist, a sleeve shifted slightly, revealing a watch—steel, glass, and the steady march of seconds, a reminder that time here is more expensive than gold.
"You have a phrase there," he tapped his finger on the underlined passage in my book. "'If the world listens to itself from the next room—it isn't mysticism; it’s a leak of attention.' Did you invent that, or... live it?"
At that moment, the light from the massive panoramic window shifted and fell across his face in a way that highlighted only his gaze—deep, preternaturally calm, and somehow hauntingly familiar. For a second, the space of the office collapsed for me. The sounds of the city behind the glass vanished; there were only these eyes and the dust motes dancing slowly in the beam of light between us.
(In my head at that moment, there was neither ethics nor black holes. There was only a strange, almost physical sensation that I had seen this light before. A thousand years ago. Or that I would see it in a thousand years at the very end of the road).
"Eva?" his voice sounded as if from far away, pulling me back to reality. "Are you here? Or has what you write about just happened to you? A leak of attention?"
I blinked, feeling a chill run down my spine at how accurately he had caught my state. My fingers trembled betrayingly, and I gripped the glass of citrus drink tighter.
"I’m here," I tried to smile, but it came out too nervous, almost childish. "I was just checking if your security system works in case a candidate suddenly enters the astral plane."
He didn't laugh, but in the corners of his eyes, there was something akin to approval.
"The system works," he replied evenly, not looking away. "But the astral plane doesn't interest us yet. What interests us is your ability to return and package that experience into meanings."
You know, in that second I realized: I would fall into that gaze even if I knew that no one ever came back from it.
"Do you have experience with meditative practices?" he asked calmly.
I almost laughed. I wanted to ask, "Are you joking?" But he wasn't the type to joke.
"I can sit in offices for nine hours," I said. "Does that count?"
He gave a low grunt of amusement. It was the first human sound that wasn't "intellectual."
"It counts," he said. "Offices are a school, too. It’s just that they usually teach the wrong things there."
I found myself enjoying his laughter. Low. No desire to please. Just a fact: he found it funny.
"Alright," he continued. "To business. You worked with urban ethics. You designed protocols for the Curators. You wrote documents that people actually followed?"
"Sometimes," I said. "If they were in enough pain."
He nodded again. And this was important: he didn't try to pretend the world was perfect. He wasn't selling me a utopia. He was simply acknowledging the mechanics.
"We have a project," he said. "Internal to the corporation. Formally—the study of singular consciousness phenomena under high-load conditions. Informally—we are trying to understand why, in this new world, people have become worse at enduring intimacy and better at enduring interfaces. It’s not about morality. It’s about the architecture of attention."
I listened, and I had an almost physical sensation from his speech: as if the words were being laid directly onto my nerve endings.
(I hate being like this. I don't like being dependent. But I am dependent. At least for this hour).
"You want me to be inside this project?" I asked.
"I want you to be near," he replied. And then he added immediately, as if correcting his own syntax: "Near the team. Near the decisions. Near the moments when protocols stop saving us."
He looked up.
"You have a talent for explaining the complex in simple language. That is a rare skill. There are many smart people here. But smart people often don't know how to translate themselves to the world."
I nodded. He turned a page in the dossier.
"Your articles on system responsibility. You write that 'responsibility is not punishment, but the ability to hold the consequences.' That is... close to me."
He said "close," and that was enough for something vital inside me to shift.
"Why?" I asked too quickly. Too personally. Almost indecently.
He looked at me. I saw him choosing: to close off or to release a fragment of his internal code.
"Because I’ve always had one question," he said. His voice grew quieter but denser. "Not about morality. About structure. Can we create something that understands us better than we understand ourselves? And will we remain ourselves when that happens?"
I stopped breathing. There it was. He isn't looking for "himself"; he is looking for the boundaries of the human as a biological species.
"So you decided to take consciousness beyond biology," I said. It wasn't a question, but a statement.
"Yes. Because it is the only way to see the 'black box' of consciousness from the outside. Through models. Through mathematics. Through security."
He leaned forward slightly, and I felt the coldness of his calm radiating toward me.
"I don't need your 'spirituality,' Eva. It’s too volatile. I need a person who knows how to hold complexity and not turn it into panic-driven rhetoric. You know how to do that."
("Panic-driven rhetoric"—he nailed me there, masterfully, of course. I pretend I’m made of iron. But inside, someone is constantly running around with a red folder labeled "URGENT! We’re all going to die, but first let's have coffee.")
"I know how to do that... with varying degrees of success," I said.
He smiled—with only the corners of his eyes.
"We all do. It’s just that some of us have better-tuned filters."
Silence settled between us, thick as an unprocessed signal. I looked at his hands—calm, precise. My book lay beside him. On the cover—the trace of his finger, like a mark on the event horizon. I wanted to ask what exactly had caught him. But I didn't. I didn't want to look like an author begging for an autograph on her own heart.
He closed the folder.
"I want to offer you a position on the core team," he said. "With a probationary period. Not out of mistrust, but out of respect for reality. You will work with me directly: protocols, public speaking, preparing commissions. And—separately—you will be included in the project on singular consciousness phenomena. Not as a 'face,' but as an architect of meanings. Does that arrangement suit you?"
In that moment, I should have been calm and rational. But I felt a warm wave rise in my stomach, as if I hadn't just been hired for a job, but had been let into a room I had been knocking on for a long time.
"Yes," I said.
He nodded.
"Good. And one more thing." He raised a finger, as if setting a condition in a contract. "In our culture today, it is customary to be sterile. It’s convenient. But sterility kills thought. I will not ask you to be sterile. I will ask you to be precise. And to hold your boundaries."
I exhaled.
"With that... I am familiar," I said.
He stood up. I did too. He walked to the door himself—no "the assistant will show you out." And before opening it, he looked at me one last time.
"You’re nervous," he said. It wasn't a question.
"I... yes," I admitted. "I don't like being noticed."
He smirked with the corner of his lips.
"Get used to it," he said. "Here, you will have to be noticed. Not because you 'must.' But because you 'can.'"
And that was almost support. Almost a human "it’s going to be great," just in his language.
You know, we only truly exist in the eyes of those capable of decoding us.
The door opened. Maya looked up. Leo said to her briefly:
"Process her. And—yes, I will be supervising her personally."
Maya nodded as if it were routine.
(But I saw a tiny spark in her gaze: "I see." I felt the heat of a blush).
Leo looked at me for the last time.
"Until next time, Eva."
"Until next time," I said.
I walked toward the elevator, and the music in the corridor changed—now James Blake, that voice that always sounds like a nerve under the skin.
(Inside me right now is a strange mixture of scientific excitement and that very feeling when you taste a very expensive, very strong wine for the first time. You don't yet understand if you like the taste, but you already know the intoxication will last a long time.)
The elevator went down. The city became a model again. I looked at the water, at the neat streets, at the people-dots, and caught a brief sensation as if the world truly was listening to itself from the next room. Not mystically. Functionally. Like a system checking its sensors.
And in that check, a question suddenly rang out—not from a book, not from a protocol, but from the body itself:
Who am I now, now that I have been seen in the flesh?
I stood at the entrance to the Arden Corporation tower and caught myself in a strange realization: I wasn’t afraid of the interview itself. I was afraid of what I would feel standing next to him.
(Yes, it sounds like adolescent nonsense. I am forty years old. I know how to hold my face. The problem is that the body sometimes refuses to sign the contracts my mind has brokered).
The glass doors didn’t just open—they dissolved, vanishing into slots with a faint, barely audible sigh of compressed air. It was like the flawless shutter of an expensive camera: one second there was a barrier, the next—clear space, inviting you in.
The lobby smelled of stone, ozone, and that neutral perfume that doesn't announce "I am here," but delicately informs you that chaos is not permitted in this building. At the reception stood a person in uniform. A screen above the desk, thin as a petal, broadcast the rules of ethical access: do not touch unauthorized data, do not overload systems, do not attempt to be more important than the protocol.
(A civilization that learned politeness through total control. You know, first we fear each other, and then we just get used to the fact that every step we take is watched by someone infinitely wise and invisible).
"Eva Korokh?" asked the administrator, her voice as flat as a line on a blueprint.
I nodded. A camera scanned my face, a sensor checked my pulse, and the bracelet on my wrist verified my clearance. They gave me a thin guest marker that stuck to my clothes like a leaf but felt like a brand on my skin.
"You will be escorted to the forty-ninth floor," she said. "You are expected."
You know, "expected" is the strangest word in our language. It carries a frightening finality. It means the stage is set, the lights are focused, and the world has paused in anticipation of your appearance. As if you are the missing element in someone’s complex and very beautiful design, and now you just need to find the courage to step into the frame.
But here, it sounded mundane, almost rhythmic. And for some reason, that was more frightening.
The elevator rose quickly; soft lines scrolled across the interior panel: news of space, news of ethics, news of markets. Somewhere between them, a brief note flashed: “Leo Arden to speak at the London Forum on AI Security and the Study of Singular Consciousness Phenomena.” I didn't finish reading. The elevator doors were already sliding open.
The corridor was bright, finished in warm wood and glass that didn't reflect you like a cheap gym, but seemed to let you pass through it. A thin strip of light ran along the floor—a route for people who dislike unnecessary questions.
And there, by the glass conference room, I saw him "in parallel" for the first time—without the stage, the filters, or the theatrical entrances. The door was ajar by exactly the width of a palm. I saw the silhouette of a man: he stood with his back to the transparent wall, behind which Chicago sat in its flawless stillness, holding a tablet as if it were a map of territory already conquered and studied.
Beside him was a woman with short hair, clearly from the high command: a heavy leather folder, quick eyes, a habit of minting phrases into headlines.
"...she’s not just from the ethics block," the man said. His voice was devoid of the desire to impress, and that was exactly what made it commanding. Not loud. Not quiet. Just terrifyingly clear. "She knows how to package meanings so they become events. People will read this, not committees."
The woman replied something; I couldn't catch it. But the next phrase hit me in the chest like a small, cold stone fired by a sniper.
"This woman, I must see personally."
I stopped half a step before the entrance. The air in the corridor suddenly became dense, like glass, and time lost its fluidity.
(Yes, I am an adult. But the phrase "see personally," spoken in that voice, translates ruthlessly in my coordinate system: "Function disabled. You have been detected. You are manifest.")
You know, the scale of a person is measured by how the geometry of your own boundaries changes under their gaze.
I took a breath, reclaiming the right to my own pulse, and stepped onto the strip of light.
The woman in the room looked toward the corridor and noticed me. The door closed. I was left alone with a green strip of light under my feet and my own breathing, which suddenly felt too loud.
An assistant met me—not a girl, but a person who understood the invisible hierarchies of power. Maya. A strict suit, a headset that looked like intimate jewelry.
"Eva, hello. Maya, from Leo’s office." She smiled exactly to the degree where a smile does not become a promise. "He’ll finish in two minutes. Are you comfortable?"
"Comfortable"—another ridiculous word. I could sit on a sofa worth a small house in old America and look at the city below. From here, Chicago looked like an architectural model: green ribbons of parks, water, glass, neat streets, people-dots. There was something both beautiful and slightly dead in this neatness.
(Like a perfect presentation where no one admits they are in pain).
I sat down. Maya offered me a glass—not of "water" (I smirked internally for a second—old prohibitions, new habits), but a transparent drink with a light citrus flavor to "reduce anxiety." Of course. Here, anxiety is managed, not lived.
Music played softly in the corner—hardly music, more like air with a rhythm. Something by Nicolas Jaar; that pulse that doesn't pressure you, but holds you. I caught myself synchronizing my breathing with the bass.
(The body loves to be led. The mind only pretends it doesn't care).
"He specifically invited you personally," Maya remarked, scrolling through something on her tablet. "Usually, the committee conducts the interviews."
There it was. The confirmation. The stone in my pocket grew heavier.
"I’m lucky," I said. It sounded like a joke, though I meant: "I’m terrified."
Maya looked at me. She had the eyes of someone who had seen hundreds of geniuses and thousands of those who wanted to be near them.
"Are you... interested?" she asked, a bit more cautiously.
"I..." I stumbled for a fraction of a second. "I want to work. Truly."
She nodded. It was almost an act of mercy; she pretended not to hear the extra layers in my voice.
The office door opened, and Leo stepped out himself. He was taller than I expected, lean, composed. His clothes were of a flawless simplicity: no logos, just a perfect cut. His face was calm, the face of a man who knows how to hold many layers inside without spilling a single drop.
He looked at me. A direct gaze, without pressure. And I realized an unpleasant thing: he sees more than he shows.
"Eva," he said. "Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for inviting me," I replied.
(Yes, I too can be a functional person. Sometimes. For five minutes. Until the system detects that beneath this social interface lies the bare rebar of raw feelings).
He made a gesture with his hand—come in. The office was an expanse: glass, wood, muted light. On a low coffee table made of dark slate stood a single cup—fine bone china, painfully white, in which the remains of coffee had left a perfect ochre contour. An object worthy of a still life.
And then I saw my "parallel": my dossier lay on the table. Paper. He liked to hold facts in his hands, to feel their density. On the cover—my name. Yellow sticky notes. Underlined lines.
I recognized a sentence from my book—a piece of text I had written late at night, thinking no one would ever read it. Underlined steadily.
(He has a habit of underlining meaning, not emotion. That is frightening. A man looking for meaning where I was just trying not to suffocate).
We sat down. He was in no hurry. That was the first signal: he is not a "guru"—gurus are always rushing to make an impression. Leo didn't make an impression. He simply was.
"Let’s start with the simple stuff," he said. His voice sounded like a well-tuned instrument. "Why are you leaving the state ethics block?"
I could have answered beautifully. Но I suddenly felt the urge to be precise. A dangerous impulse.
"Because I’m tired of protecting protocols from people who pretend to follow them," I said. "And because I want to work with those who build the system, not those who stick rules onto it like Band-Aids."
He nodded. Just the nod of a man recording a thought.
"You realize it will be worse here? More responsibility. Fewer shields."
"I realize," I said. "That is exactly why I am here."
He offered a slight smile. Almost imperceptible.
You know, sometimes one such smile is worth all the security protocols ever written in the world.
"Good. Then, the second question." He opened the folder and took out a printed sheet. "Your book. Event Horizon. Why did you write it so... personally?"
That wasn't fair. Interviews are usually about competencies. Yet I was suddenly being asked to strip off my skin.
"Because otherwise, it would have been just another methodological manual that no one finishes," I said. "And I wanted people to feel the boundary, not the object. That moment when the familiar 'I' ceases to be a guarantee."
He looked at me as if testing my words against something he had already found in himself. On his wrist, a sleeve shifted slightly, revealing a watch—steel, glass, and the steady march of seconds, a reminder that time here is more expensive than gold.
"You have a phrase there," he tapped his finger on the underlined passage in my book. "'If the world listens to itself from the next room—it isn't mysticism; it’s a leak of attention.' Did you invent that, or... live it?"
At that moment, the light from the massive panoramic window shifted and fell across his face in a way that highlighted only his gaze—deep, preternaturally calm, and somehow hauntingly familiar. For a second, the space of the office collapsed for me. The sounds of the city behind the glass vanished; there were only these eyes and the dust motes dancing slowly in the beam of light between us.
(In my head at that moment, there was neither ethics nor black holes. There was only a strange, almost physical sensation that I had seen this light before. A thousand years ago. Or that I would see it in a thousand years at the very end of the road).
"Eva?" his voice sounded as if from far away, pulling me back to reality. "Are you here? Or has what you write about just happened to you? A leak of attention?"
I blinked, feeling a chill run down my spine at how accurately he had caught my state. My fingers trembled betrayingly, and I gripped the glass of citrus drink tighter.
"I’m here," I tried to smile, but it came out too nervous, almost childish. "I was just checking if your security system works in case a candidate suddenly enters the astral plane."
He didn't laugh, but in the corners of his eyes, there was something akin to approval.
"The system works," he replied evenly, not looking away. "But the astral plane doesn't interest us yet. What interests us is your ability to return and package that experience into meanings."
You know, in that second I realized: I would fall into that gaze even if I knew that no one ever came back from it.
"Do you have experience with meditative practices?" he asked calmly.
I almost laughed. I wanted to ask, "Are you joking?" But he wasn't the type to joke.
"I can sit in offices for nine hours," I said. "Does that count?"
He gave a low grunt of amusement. It was the first human sound that wasn't "intellectual."
"It counts," he said. "Offices are a school, too. It’s just that they usually teach the wrong things there."
I found myself enjoying his laughter. Low. No desire to please. Just a fact: he found it funny.
"Alright," he continued. "To business. You worked with urban ethics. You designed protocols for the Curators. You wrote documents that people actually followed?"
"Sometimes," I said. "If they were in enough pain."
He nodded again. And this was important: he didn't try to pretend the world was perfect. He wasn't selling me a utopia. He was simply acknowledging the mechanics.
"We have a project," he said. "Internal to the corporation. Formally—the study of singular consciousness phenomena under high-load conditions. Informally—we are trying to understand why, in this new world, people have become worse at enduring intimacy and better at enduring interfaces. It’s not about morality. It’s about the architecture of attention."
I listened, and I had an almost physical sensation from his speech: as if the words were being laid directly onto my nerve endings.
(I hate being like this. I don't like being dependent. But I am dependent. At least for this hour).
"You want me to be inside this project?" I asked.
"I want you to be near," he replied. And then he added immediately, as if correcting his own syntax: "Near the team. Near the decisions. Near the moments when protocols stop saving us."
He looked up.
"You have a talent for explaining the complex in simple language. That is a rare skill. There are many smart people here. But smart people often don't know how to translate themselves to the world."
I nodded. He turned a page in the dossier.
"Your articles on system responsibility. You write that 'responsibility is not punishment, but the ability to hold the consequences.' That is... close to me."
He said "close," and that was enough for something vital inside me to shift.
"Why?" I asked too quickly. Too personally. Almost indecently.
He looked at me. I saw him choosing: to close off or to release a fragment of his internal code.
"Because I’ve always had one question," he said. His voice grew quieter but denser. "Not about morality. About structure. Can we create something that understands us better than we understand ourselves? And will we remain ourselves when that happens?"
I stopped breathing. There it was. He isn't looking for "himself"; he is looking for the boundaries of the human as a biological species.
"So you decided to take consciousness beyond biology," I said. It wasn't a question, but a statement.
"Yes. Because it is the only way to see the 'black box' of consciousness from the outside. Through models. Through mathematics. Through security."
He leaned forward slightly, and I felt the coldness of his calm radiating toward me.
"I don't need your 'spirituality,' Eva. It’s too volatile. I need a person who knows how to hold complexity and not turn it into panic-driven rhetoric. You know how to do that."
("Panic-driven rhetoric"—he nailed me there, masterfully, of course. I pretend I’m made of iron. But inside, someone is constantly running around with a red folder labeled "URGENT! We’re all going to die, but first let's have coffee.")
"I know how to do that... with varying degrees of success," I said.
He smiled—with only the corners of his eyes.
"We all do. It’s just that some of us have better-tuned filters."
Silence settled between us, thick as an unprocessed signal. I looked at his hands—calm, precise. My book lay beside him. On the cover—the trace of his finger, like a mark on the event horizon. I wanted to ask what exactly had caught him. But I didn't. I didn't want to look like an author begging for an autograph on her own heart.
He closed the folder.
"I want to offer you a position on the core team," he said. "With a probationary period. Not out of mistrust, but out of respect for reality. You will work with me directly: protocols, public speaking, preparing commissions. And—separately—you will be included in the project on singular consciousness phenomena. Not as a 'face,' but as an architect of meanings. Does that arrangement suit you?"
In that moment, I should have been calm and rational. But I felt a warm wave rise in my stomach, as if I hadn't just been hired for a job, but had been let into a room I had been knocking on for a long time.
"Yes," I said.
He nodded.
"Good. And one more thing." He raised a finger, as if setting a condition in a contract. "In our culture today, it is customary to be sterile. It’s convenient. But sterility kills thought. I will not ask you to be sterile. I will ask you to be precise. And to hold your boundaries."
I exhaled.
"With that... I am familiar," I said.
He stood up. I did too. He walked to the door himself—no "the assistant will show you out." And before opening it, he looked at me one last time.
"You’re nervous," he said. It wasn't a question.
"I... yes," I admitted. "I don't like being noticed."
He smirked with the corner of his lips.
"Get used to it," he said. "Here, you will have to be noticed. Not because you 'must.' But because you 'can.'"
And that was almost support. Almost a human "it’s going to be great," just in his language.
You know, we only truly exist in the eyes of those capable of decoding us.
The door opened. Maya looked up. Leo said to her briefly:
"Process her. And—yes, I will be supervising her personally."
Maya nodded as if it were routine.
(But I saw a tiny spark in her gaze: "I see." I felt the heat of a blush).
Leo looked at me for the last time.
"Until next time, Eva."
"Until next time," I said.
I walked toward the elevator, and the music in the corridor changed—now James Blake, that voice that always sounds like a nerve under the skin.
(Inside me right now is a strange mixture of scientific excitement and that very feeling when you taste a very expensive, very strong wine for the first time. You don't yet understand if you like the taste, but you already know the intoxication will last a long time.)
The elevator went down. The city became a model again. I looked at the water, at the neat streets, at the people-dots, and caught a brief sensation as if the world truly was listening to itself from the next room. Not mystically. Functionally. Like a system checking its sensors.
And in that check, a question suddenly rang out—not from a book, not from a protocol, but from the body itself:
Who am I now, now that I have been seen in the flesh?
Chapter 3. First Access (The Badge, The Team, and the Word "Hold")
The first day of work in 2050 doesn’t start with flowers on the desk or awkward small talk by the coffee machine. It starts with the system "recognizing" you.
As I approached the Arden turnstiles, the bracelet on my wrist didn’t just flash—it responded with a brief, almost intimate vibration. Retina scanned, pulse confirmed, "Level 1 Access. Direct Reporting" activated.
(It’s nice to know that at least the algorithms are confident in my right to be here. I was doubting it myself while choosing between "just gray" and "very gray" cashmere).
The employee badge seemed to cling to the fabric on its own. Warm, almost alive, as if it hadn't been issued but "accepted." On the transparent panel, my name, department, and access level flickered, followed by a long string of protocols—it all sounded so beautiful that a suspicion crept in: respect others' attention, don't take up space, don't be more important than the procedure.
(Funny: in 2050, people are taught manners as if manners were a safety protocol.)
Maya met me by the elevators—fast, polished, collected. In her hands was a tablet and a small kit: a headset, a spare badge, and a slim case of something like "dry composure" for those who keep a straight face until it cramps.
— Welcome, Eva, — she said. — Two points right away: access and the team. Then—the internal commission. Leo will be there.
The phrase "Leo will be there" sounded coming from her the way others say "the weather will be clear." No subtext. Just a fact. (But inside me, something twitched anyway, as if the voltage in the system had shifted.)
We walked down a hallway where the wood on the walls was real and the glass wasn't storefront quality. On the panels, I saw familiar words: "consequences." I felt the adult, dry, practical part of me straighten up for a second.
— Your block is here, — Maya pointed to a door that didn't open with a handle but "consented" to your presence. — Inside is your workspace and a small meeting room. You’ll like it: it doesn’t pressure you.
— Does anything in this building pressure anyone? — I asked.
Maya smiled exactly two millimeters.
— Only the deadline, — she said. — But that’s our family tradition.
Maya gave me access, showed me the commission channel and Leo’s channel—separately. Before leaving, she paused for a second.
— You’ll have a lot of contact with him, — she said, looking not at me, but as if through me. — It’s hard for people who… read fast.
— I don’t "read fast," — I replied. — I just don't know how not to notice.
She nodded, as if it were a diagnosed condition.
— Then a piece of advice: don't try to look calm. Try to be accurate, — Maya said. — They value that more here.
She left. And I was left alone with the silence… no, not like that—with the absence of unnecessary noise. And it was almost dangerous: when everything is too smooth, the brain starts creating anxiety as a hobby.
I turned on Hania Rani in my ear—quietly, on the edge of audibility, to keep the rhythm. And I opened the "Commission / Framework" packet.
Twenty minutes later, the first message hit the general channel: "Room 3, ten minutes, no delays." No "please," no "thank you." Only speed.
I took my tablet, badge, and a small notebook—yes, a paper one. Silly, but I like it when an object can be closed and it won't send anything "to the cloud." (In this world, almost everything knows how to be a witness.)
Room 3 was no larger than a meeting room, but designed so that no one sat "lower" than another. Round table, soft light. People were already in their seats. Everyone had the same look: the focused fatigue of people doing things that matter too much.
I sat near the edge, as always. I like being close without being the center. It’s my way of maintaining control: I see everything, but I’m barely there.
Then the door opened.
Leo walked in without a pause. He just entered and sat down as if it weren't a meeting, but a continuation of a thought. For a second, I felt uneasy: his presence didn't demand attention, but attention flowed to him on its own. (I hate people like that. And yes—I’m drawn to them.)
— Let’s begin, — he said. — Time.
— This is the external skeleton, — he said. — We must speak about it in a way that doesn't turn us into a cult or a threat. Words are your zone, — he added and looked at me.
Not as a "woman," not as a "newbie." As a "tool." It was… right. And yet, my body reacted as if to a touch: a warm wave in my stomach, a slight tremor in my fingers. (Yes, thank you. Great career start: tremors and faking competence.)
— Eva, — said one of the ethicists. — Tell us: where is the potential ethical leak here? Not "risks to society," but a leak of meaning. Where will people start to speculate?
I didn't have time to get scared. I answered immediately:
— Where "singularity of consciousness" is mentioned, — I said. — That word is already infected with expectations. People hear a promise: "we are going to cut open your soul." And a threat: "we are going to hack your 'I'." We need a language that doesn't promise and doesn't scare. We need the language of process.
Leo tilted his head slightly. That same micro-movement that replaced his "well done."
— Be specific, — he said.
— We say "marginal attention modes," — I suggested. — "Extreme perception regimes." We say "the observer as a habit." We say "attention architecture"—and we show that we are exploring the boundaries of the model, not invading people. Even if inside the project, we are, of course, invading, — I added, unable to help myself.
Someone chuckled. Not maliciously. Rather, gratefully: finally, a human phrase.
And the whole time I felt Leo nearby—not physically, but as a field. He didn't pressure, didn't interrupt, but when he spoke, the air became denser. And I wanted to measure up. (The most humiliating desire: to measure up to a person who doesn't even pretend he needs you to.)
Leo looked at me—and it was as if he heard what I had swallowed.
— Formulate it, — he said.
I felt myself getting hot.
— Perhaps, — I said cautiously, — the question isn't that people have become "worse." The question is that culture has made distance a mark of ethics. And now the body seems like a suspicious tool. We must speak in a way that doesn't start a war of "brain against body." But holds both.
A pause hung in the air. A working one.
— This will be our framework for London, — Leo said. — Not conflict, but balance.
And that was when he did something he "legendarily" wasn't expected to do. He looked at me a bit softer and said—quietly, for me, not for the room:
— Hold this line. You’re doing it.
One word—"hold." Not sugar. Not a hug. But it made me feel calmer than all the city protocols combined.
(And yes, it’s scary. Because it’s starting to matter to me. And when it matters—I lose control. My favorite nightmare.)
Leo stopped me for a second at the exit.
— Briefing on the external contour at 19:00, — he said. — Be there. And one more thing: don't try to make it perfect today. Make it clear.
He shifted to the informal "you" (Te) effortlessly, without trying to close the distance. Like a technical setting. And yet, it was more intimate than the formal "You."
When I looked up, the city was reflected in the glass of the meeting room—neat, assembled, too good.
I dropped my gaze to the badge on my chest. Name. Access level. Department. Protocols.
And somewhere beneath that—my old habit of being "in control" so as not to feel.
I typed one short thesis for London into the channel and sent it.
The system accepted.
The body—not yet.
Maya brought the data for the "Singular Consciousness" project.
I opened the file. The first thing I saw was a graph of decaying human reactions upon contact with AI interfaces. The curve plummeted so sharply it made me cold. We stop feeling the other as soon as a screen appears between us.
— Have you already started looking for the error? — Leo’s voice sounded behind me.
I didn't flinch. (I had learned to recognize his footsteps. They were too precise for someone just "walking").
I turned around. He was in a dark, almost black sweater.
— I’m looking for the moment it all went wrong, — I said, pointing at the graph. — We created a world where we no longer need to empathize to survive. It’s efficient. And it’s... disgusting.
He stepped closer. Between us remained that exact distance that ethics protocols call a "comfort zone," but which in reality felt like a taut string.
— It’s not disgusting, Eva. It’s economical. Emotions are energy leaks. But you are here to find out if there is something beyond those leaks. That very "singularity" that cannot be digitized.
He headed for the exit but stopped at the door.
— And, Eva...
— Yes?
— Nice shoes. Prada, if I'm not mistaken? They suit you.
I watched him go, a faint smile touching my own reflection in the glass door—the evening promised to be anything but boring.
The corporate archive wasn't a basement with dusty folders. It was a sterile data vault. I entered at 18:10.
I activated the console. Three folders popped up on the transparent surface. "Bird." "Plane." And a third one, unnamed, marked only with my personal access code.
I started with "Bird."
The video showed an ordinary pigeon. Но for 4.2 seconds, it literally froze in the sky. Not hovering, but frozen, defying gravity. Leo’s signature: "Matter is waiting for attention. The synchronous focus of passersby created a bug in local physics. We started breaking space just by looking at it."
In "Plane," it was even worse. A flight from San Francisco to Chicago. 240 passengers. The plane vanished from radar for 30 seconds. It was flying but not moving, stuck in a single point in space because the consciousness of everyone on board synchronized into one collective "now." Stasis.
A chill ran through me. Leo is researching how our attention turns into a physical force.
And then I touched the third folder.
Inside were screenshots of my old posts, drafts of articles I never published, and... my psycho-profile, compiled by Arden’s system two years ago.
At the very bottom of the screen, a line highlighted in gray:
"Eva Korokh. Observer type: 'Resonant.' Ability to maintain focus in chaos—98%. Necessary for external contour stabilization. Note L.A.: Find any way to recruit. She is our fuse."
"Fuse." My mouth went dry. I didn't just "impress" him at the interview. I was part of the blueprint. A tool he had chosen long before I crossed the threshold of this tower.
I reached out to open an attachment marked "Personal Contact," my heart pounding in my throat...
Suddenly, the soft sound of the door opening came from behind me. I jerked my hand back.
— Did you find what you were looking for? — Leo’s voice was quiet, but in that silence, it felt like an electric shock.
I turned slowly. He was leaning against the doorframe.
— What are you researching, Leo? — I asked, trying to steady the tremor in my voice. — A bird that doesn’t fall. A plane that doesn't fly. You’re researching how we hack the world with our presence. And you need someone to explain it to people so they don't go insane.
He took a step forward. The console light reflected in his eyes.
— We’ve always been hacking it, Eva. We’ve just become too noticeable to the system now.
He looked at the clock. 18:58.
— It’s time, Eva. Briefing. Let’s go. And... leave that "Bird" here for now.
He turned and walked toward the exit. I followed him, feeling the badge on my chest vibrate in time with my racing pulse. I never did get to read that file.
(I wonder, is a "fuse" the one who saves the system, or the one who burns out first when the voltage becomes unbearable?)
As I approached the Arden turnstiles, the bracelet on my wrist didn’t just flash—it responded with a brief, almost intimate vibration. Retina scanned, pulse confirmed, "Level 1 Access. Direct Reporting" activated.
(It’s nice to know that at least the algorithms are confident in my right to be here. I was doubting it myself while choosing between "just gray" and "very gray" cashmere).
The employee badge seemed to cling to the fabric on its own. Warm, almost alive, as if it hadn't been issued but "accepted." On the transparent panel, my name, department, and access level flickered, followed by a long string of protocols—it all sounded so beautiful that a suspicion crept in: respect others' attention, don't take up space, don't be more important than the procedure.
(Funny: in 2050, people are taught manners as if manners were a safety protocol.)
Maya met me by the elevators—fast, polished, collected. In her hands was a tablet and a small kit: a headset, a spare badge, and a slim case of something like "dry composure" for those who keep a straight face until it cramps.
— Welcome, Eva, — she said. — Two points right away: access and the team. Then—the internal commission. Leo will be there.
The phrase "Leo will be there" sounded coming from her the way others say "the weather will be clear." No subtext. Just a fact. (But inside me, something twitched anyway, as if the voltage in the system had shifted.)
We walked down a hallway where the wood on the walls was real and the glass wasn't storefront quality. On the panels, I saw familiar words: "consequences." I felt the adult, dry, practical part of me straighten up for a second.
— Your block is here, — Maya pointed to a door that didn't open with a handle but "consented" to your presence. — Inside is your workspace and a small meeting room. You’ll like it: it doesn’t pressure you.
— Does anything in this building pressure anyone? — I asked.
Maya smiled exactly two millimeters.
— Only the deadline, — she said. — But that’s our family tradition.
Maya gave me access, showed me the commission channel and Leo’s channel—separately. Before leaving, she paused for a second.
— You’ll have a lot of contact with him, — she said, looking not at me, but as if through me. — It’s hard for people who… read fast.
— I don’t "read fast," — I replied. — I just don't know how not to notice.
She nodded, as if it were a diagnosed condition.
— Then a piece of advice: don't try to look calm. Try to be accurate, — Maya said. — They value that more here.
She left. And I was left alone with the silence… no, not like that—with the absence of unnecessary noise. And it was almost dangerous: when everything is too smooth, the brain starts creating anxiety as a hobby.
I turned on Hania Rani in my ear—quietly, on the edge of audibility, to keep the rhythm. And I opened the "Commission / Framework" packet.
Twenty minutes later, the first message hit the general channel: "Room 3, ten minutes, no delays." No "please," no "thank you." Only speed.
I took my tablet, badge, and a small notebook—yes, a paper one. Silly, but I like it when an object can be closed and it won't send anything "to the cloud." (In this world, almost everything knows how to be a witness.)
Room 3 was no larger than a meeting room, but designed so that no one sat "lower" than another. Round table, soft light. People were already in their seats. Everyone had the same look: the focused fatigue of people doing things that matter too much.
I sat near the edge, as always. I like being close without being the center. It’s my way of maintaining control: I see everything, but I’m barely there.
Then the door opened.
Leo walked in without a pause. He just entered and sat down as if it weren't a meeting, but a continuation of a thought. For a second, I felt uneasy: his presence didn't demand attention, but attention flowed to him on its own. (I hate people like that. And yes—I’m drawn to them.)
— Let’s begin, — he said. — Time.
— This is the external skeleton, — he said. — We must speak about it in a way that doesn't turn us into a cult or a threat. Words are your zone, — he added and looked at me.
Not as a "woman," not as a "newbie." As a "tool." It was… right. And yet, my body reacted as if to a touch: a warm wave in my stomach, a slight tremor in my fingers. (Yes, thank you. Great career start: tremors and faking competence.)
— Eva, — said one of the ethicists. — Tell us: where is the potential ethical leak here? Not "risks to society," but a leak of meaning. Where will people start to speculate?
I didn't have time to get scared. I answered immediately:
— Where "singularity of consciousness" is mentioned, — I said. — That word is already infected with expectations. People hear a promise: "we are going to cut open your soul." And a threat: "we are going to hack your 'I'." We need a language that doesn't promise and doesn't scare. We need the language of process.
Leo tilted his head slightly. That same micro-movement that replaced his "well done."
— Be specific, — he said.
— We say "marginal attention modes," — I suggested. — "Extreme perception regimes." We say "the observer as a habit." We say "attention architecture"—and we show that we are exploring the boundaries of the model, not invading people. Even if inside the project, we are, of course, invading, — I added, unable to help myself.
Someone chuckled. Not maliciously. Rather, gratefully: finally, a human phrase.
And the whole time I felt Leo nearby—not physically, but as a field. He didn't pressure, didn't interrupt, but when he spoke, the air became denser. And I wanted to measure up. (The most humiliating desire: to measure up to a person who doesn't even pretend he needs you to.)
Leo looked at me—and it was as if he heard what I had swallowed.
— Formulate it, — he said.
I felt myself getting hot.
— Perhaps, — I said cautiously, — the question isn't that people have become "worse." The question is that culture has made distance a mark of ethics. And now the body seems like a suspicious tool. We must speak in a way that doesn't start a war of "brain against body." But holds both.
A pause hung in the air. A working one.
— This will be our framework for London, — Leo said. — Not conflict, but balance.
And that was when he did something he "legendarily" wasn't expected to do. He looked at me a bit softer and said—quietly, for me, not for the room:
— Hold this line. You’re doing it.
One word—"hold." Not sugar. Not a hug. But it made me feel calmer than all the city protocols combined.
(And yes, it’s scary. Because it’s starting to matter to me. And when it matters—I lose control. My favorite nightmare.)
Leo stopped me for a second at the exit.
— Briefing on the external contour at 19:00, — he said. — Be there. And one more thing: don't try to make it perfect today. Make it clear.
He shifted to the informal "you" (Te) effortlessly, without trying to close the distance. Like a technical setting. And yet, it was more intimate than the formal "You."
When I looked up, the city was reflected in the glass of the meeting room—neat, assembled, too good.
I dropped my gaze to the badge on my chest. Name. Access level. Department. Protocols.
And somewhere beneath that—my old habit of being "in control" so as not to feel.
I typed one short thesis for London into the channel and sent it.
The system accepted.
The body—not yet.
Maya brought the data for the "Singular Consciousness" project.
I opened the file. The first thing I saw was a graph of decaying human reactions upon contact with AI interfaces. The curve plummeted so sharply it made me cold. We stop feeling the other as soon as a screen appears between us.
— Have you already started looking for the error? — Leo’s voice sounded behind me.
I didn't flinch. (I had learned to recognize his footsteps. They were too precise for someone just "walking").
I turned around. He was in a dark, almost black sweater.
— I’m looking for the moment it all went wrong, — I said, pointing at the graph. — We created a world where we no longer need to empathize to survive. It’s efficient. And it’s... disgusting.
He stepped closer. Between us remained that exact distance that ethics protocols call a "comfort zone," but which in reality felt like a taut string.
— It’s not disgusting, Eva. It’s economical. Emotions are energy leaks. But you are here to find out if there is something beyond those leaks. That very "singularity" that cannot be digitized.
He headed for the exit but stopped at the door.
— And, Eva...
— Yes?
— Nice shoes. Prada, if I'm not mistaken? They suit you.
I watched him go, a faint smile touching my own reflection in the glass door—the evening promised to be anything but boring.
The corporate archive wasn't a basement with dusty folders. It was a sterile data vault. I entered at 18:10.
I activated the console. Three folders popped up on the transparent surface. "Bird." "Plane." And a third one, unnamed, marked only with my personal access code.
I started with "Bird."
The video showed an ordinary pigeon. Но for 4.2 seconds, it literally froze in the sky. Not hovering, but frozen, defying gravity. Leo’s signature: "Matter is waiting for attention. The synchronous focus of passersby created a bug in local physics. We started breaking space just by looking at it."
In "Plane," it was even worse. A flight from San Francisco to Chicago. 240 passengers. The plane vanished from radar for 30 seconds. It was flying but not moving, stuck in a single point in space because the consciousness of everyone on board synchronized into one collective "now." Stasis.
A chill ran through me. Leo is researching how our attention turns into a physical force.
And then I touched the third folder.
Inside were screenshots of my old posts, drafts of articles I never published, and... my psycho-profile, compiled by Arden’s system two years ago.
At the very bottom of the screen, a line highlighted in gray:
"Eva Korokh. Observer type: 'Resonant.' Ability to maintain focus in chaos—98%. Necessary for external contour stabilization. Note L.A.: Find any way to recruit. She is our fuse."
"Fuse." My mouth went dry. I didn't just "impress" him at the interview. I was part of the blueprint. A tool he had chosen long before I crossed the threshold of this tower.
I reached out to open an attachment marked "Personal Contact," my heart pounding in my throat...
Suddenly, the soft sound of the door opening came from behind me. I jerked my hand back.
— Did you find what you were looking for? — Leo’s voice was quiet, but in that silence, it felt like an electric shock.
I turned slowly. He was leaning against the doorframe.
— What are you researching, Leo? — I asked, trying to steady the tremor in my voice. — A bird that doesn’t fall. A plane that doesn't fly. You’re researching how we hack the world with our presence. And you need someone to explain it to people so they don't go insane.
He took a step forward. The console light reflected in his eyes.
— We’ve always been hacking it, Eva. We’ve just become too noticeable to the system now.
He looked at the clock. 18:58.
— It’s time, Eva. Briefing. Let’s go. And... leave that "Bird" here for now.
He turned and walked toward the exit. I followed him, feeling the badge on my chest vibrate in time with my racing pulse. I never did get to read that file.
(I wonder, is a "fuse" the one who saves the system, or the one who burns out first when the voltage becomes unbearable?)
Chapter 4. London (The Invitation, the Suitcase, and "I'm Here For You")
The invitation arrived not as an "event" but as a line in a work chat. Softly, without red flags. In 2050, even suddenness is politely formatted.
I sat at my desk, trying to mentally organize tomorrow's commission as if it were a routine video call. It wasn't working: my thoughts clung to trifles like handrails. I reread my theses and caught myself looking not for meaning, but for confirmation. (And confirmation, as it turned out, was not something they dispensed here. Not even in an ideal city.)
The screen flickered: "Request from Maya."
Eva, step into the 'North' room for a minute.
"For a minute" with Maya meant either ten minutes or a new life. I stood up, approached the glass door, and my palm instinctively touched the scanner.
Leo was in the room. Alone. Without his team, without his "right wing," without that theatrical sense that an important person must always be accompanied by someone to confirm their significance.
In his hands, he held a printout – not mine, some other one. The top line read: "London Forum." I didn't get to read the rest.
"Have a seat," he said.
I sat down and felt strange – as if I were back at the interview, though technically, I was already inside. (Systems love to remind you that your presence "inside" is conditional.)
He placed the sheet on the table, turning it towards me.
"I need you to come to London with me," he said. And immediately added, as if preempting any potential misinterpretations: "Not as 'accompaniment.' But as the voice of the project."
I blinked.
"I... just got here," I said. "I haven't even had time to... properly integrate."
"You have," he replied evenly. "You've drafted the project description so it can be read without a bureaucratic translator. That is integration."
I wanted to object out of politeness. Or fear. I chose honesty, but in brief:
"This is very sudden."
He nodded almost imperceptibly. Not apologetically. Simply acknowledging the fact.
"Sudden, yes. Because a stage is approaching where it won't be about making an impression, but about holding the frame. And I want you to stand beside me not in the shadows, but in the field of meaning."
The field of meaning. Of course. Even "I'm taking you with me" sounds like an architectural project from him.
"What exactly will I be doing?" I asked, grasping at the safest anchor.
Leo pointed his finger at the sheet.
"A panel on AI safety and singular phenomena of consciousness. The questions will be uncomfortable. There will be people who will want us either to promise the impossible or confess to a crime. You will be responsible for the ethical part: what we consider permissible, where the boundary lies, how we manage the consequences. And there will be a short segment about your book — not as 'literature,' but as a way to explain the observer's boundaries."
That familiar wave again in my stomach — not joy, not fear, but something like physical readiness. And at the same time — a desire to flee. Classic.
"I don't like public speaking," I said.
"I know," he replied calmly. "That's exactly why you're needed there. People who love to speak often start to love their own 'I' in the process. And we need to love the frame."
I let out a short laugh because that was too accurate.
"Okay," I said. "When?"
"Departure in three days," he stated.
I blinked again. Three days isn't even "sudden." It's "not enough time to properly get scared."
"That's..." I stammered. "Are you sure?"
Leo looked directly at me. The way people accustomed to answering for their choices look.
"Yes."
And at that moment, something childish, out of place, awoke in me: I wanted to ask, "Why me?" Not about the job — about him. But I didn't ask. I held my composure, because I'm forty, and I don't want to be transparent.
"Maya will send you the logistics," he continued. "You'll have separate time for rehearsal. And also..." he paused briefly, as if choosing his words. "You might be nervous. That's normal. But you don't have to be alone in it."
I looked up. This didn't sound like a protocol anymore.
"I'll manage," I answered automatically.
"I have no doubt," he replied. "But that's not the only way to live."
He said it without any "wisdom." Simply as a fact. My throat felt dry for some reason.
"Alright," I said. "Then... what's required of me now?"
"Today — the commission. Tomorrow — the first draft of the speech. The day after tomorrow — rehearsal. And get some rest tonight," he added, as if it were the most logical thing to say to an employee.
I almost laughed. "Get some rest tonight." As if that were an available option.
"Of course," I said. "I'll just turn off my head like a light."
He smiled almost imperceptibly. Almost humanly.
"That's why I hired you," he said. "You know how not to pretend to be perfect."
I left the "North" room with the feeling that I hadn't been given a trip, but an acceleration. The corridor still gleamed with cleanliness, people still walked silently, the city still pretended to be nerveless. But inside me, a storm was already brewing.
Maya intercepted me by the elevator, as if sensing the shift in the air.
"London, huh?" she asked, not asking.
"Yes," I replied. "In three days."
She nodded, her face remaining calm, but something flickered in her eyes, like: "understood."
"Then listen carefully. You'll receive a package shortly. Documents, itineraries, dress code. And most importantly: don't bring anything superfluous. London likes it when you bring the essence, not a wardrobe."
"London likes it when you bring money," I interjected.
Maya let out a quiet chuckle.
"In this building, we pretend that's not the case," she replied. "But you're right."
The package arrived almost immediately. A list of meetings, a rehearsal window, two panels, one closed dinner "for science donors" (as if science were charity). At the end — a short line:
Leo asks you to prepare 6-8 theses on the topic: "what we definitely do not promise."
This was his favorite territory: negations that save reality.
In the evening, I stood at home before an open closet, thinking of London as a complex project: what to take so as not to lose. And then I felt uneasy: I was preparing to win again. Even where I just needed to be alive.
I took out a dark suit — strict, undemonstrative, the fabric held its shape like an iron will. Then — a soft shirt. I placed them side by side. Looked at them as two versions of myself.
Then I opened the case with my book. Not because I needed to "present the author." But because I needed to remind myself: I know how to speak not just in documents. I flipped to the page where I once wrote a phrase about the observer's boundary — and caught a fleeting feeling that the world was indeed listening to itself from another room. Not mystically. Like a system checking its sensors. Like a person who suddenly heard their own breath.
A message from Leo popped up on the screen: You'll manage. If needed — I'll catch you.
I reread it twice. Then a third time. Not because I didn't understand. But because my body suddenly believed it before my mind could ruin everything.
(Strange thing: in the new world, intimacy is considered dubious, while support is the norm. But for me, it's the opposite. Support scares me more than any rules.)
I closed the suitcase. Small. Almost absurd for "London." But, it seems, Maya was right: it's better to carry the essence than the superfluous.
Before bed, I sat on the edge of the bed and caught myself wanting something simple, out of place: for him to say it out loud one more time. Not as a boss. As a person.
I didn't write to him. Of course not.
I just turned off the light and tried not to turn it into a story. I failed.
Chapter 5. "Echelon" (The London Flight)
The terminal in 2050 looks like an idea of cleanliness pushed to the point of aggression. White surfaces without a trace, glass, floors that don’t creak or “live” — because to live is to leave an imprint. Even the air doesn’t smell of people: it smells of filtration, and slightly of metal, like the inside of a new device that hasn't yet grown accustomed to the world. (You know, sometimes it feels like they purposely make these places so sterile just so we forget that we actually have skin.)
I walk down a corridor where the light falls so evenly that any emotion feels like a defect. Inside me is the usual duality: my brain is already sorting everything into cells (“clearance,” “logistics,” “contour”), while my body behaves like a traitor: my shoulders are a bit too stiff, my palms are warm, my pulse is redundant. (A functional woman in a world of functional people. Any physiology here is like a bug in the code.)
Maya catches up with me at the control line, appearing beside me like a notification.
— London loves turning people into interfaces, — she says, without looking at me. — Try not to become convenient.
— Too late, — I reply. — I’m already convenient. Just not for everyone.
She smirks with the corner of her mouth and nods toward the glass wall. There, in the reflection, he stands as if the terminal were built around him: a graphite silhouette, a color that doesn't catch the light but stifles it. The coat isn't “fashionable,” it’s quiet: a fabric without texture on display, as if it were created not to distract from the essence. Underneath is a dark sweater, also making no statement, but with that density that holds its shape. (I know these “quiet” materials: they aren't about style. They are about the control of attention.)
Leo doesn't look around. He looks at the destination point. And from this, I feel both calmer and worse. Because calmness near him is not an endearment. It’s a system. (A system that holds you until you start trying to break free.)
He approaches just closely enough for me to hear his voice without unnecessary witnesses.
— Let’s go, — he says.
And that’s it. No “ready?” or “how are you?”. Just a command that sounds like a habitual fact: we are moving. We are in the echelon. (It sometimes seems to me that he talks to the world as if it were infrastructure. And yet — it works.)
We pass through security as if we have a long-standing contract with the terminal: no questions, no pauses, no stranger's eyes for extra seconds. His clearances open corridors that don’t exist for others. I walk half a step behind — and catch myself with a disturbingly honest thought: it’s more comfortable for me this way. Not humiliating. Not “submission.” More like a comfortable geometry: he is in front because he holds the risk, I am there because I hold the meaning. (Sometimes order is the only form of tenderness this world acknowledges.)
The jet meets us with the scent of leather and wood. There are no accidental things inside. None. Even the pillows look like part of an engineering solution. The light is dimmed so the eyes don’t tire and thoughts don't scatter. (The cabin doesn't invite you to relax. It invites you to maintain the contour.)
I sit down, and the seat accepts my back with the degree of care usually given only by medical systems. On the armrest is a built-in interface that already knows my pulse. Leo takes off his coat. I hear small sounds: the click of a seatbelt, the soft slide of a panel, the low hum of a system checking that everything is normal. (Here, even sound is part of the discipline.)
When the plane begins to move, I feel it in my knees. Not with my ears — with my body. Thrust gathers in the lower abdomen like a dense current, and the city outside the window recedes. Chicago looks “cured”: lines glow evenly, the snow on the roofs looks like an artificial texture, the lights — like a circuit board. It sinks down without regret. (Cities don’t know how to miss you. It’s the only thing I respect them for.)
Leo opens the presentation. The screen between us lights up with dry blocks of text — and in that moment, I immediately know what’s coming. He reads silently, quickly, with a gaze that doesn't “understand” but diagnoses. His face doesn't change. Но I see it: in one place he makes a micro-pause. In another — he barely perceptibly tightens his jaw. (He only reacts this way to two types of things: a threat and extra words.)
— Too much, — he says finally.
I don't answer immediately. Because I didn't put “information” into this text. I put the architecture of meaning into it. And he’s speaking now as if he’s looking at a technical report.
— It’s not “too much,” — I say. — It’s context. Without it, they’ll only hear a beautiful shell.
— They don’t hear context, — he replies. — They hear the breath.
I look at him. At how calmly he says that word, as if explaining the physics of gravity. (And it pisses me off that he’s right again, even though I don’t want to agree.)
— The breath of meaning, — I continue, and I can hear the steel appearing in my own voice. — It’s what remains when you remove the decorations. But if you remove too much, only emptiness remains.
Leo leans forward slightly, elbow on the armrest. Between us is the distance of a single movement. I catch the scent of the clean wool of his sweater, warm and dry, like heated metal without the hardness. (This scent of his is always the same: the absence of the unnecessary.)
— Emptiness is also a tool, — he says. — The question is, who fills it.
I smirk.
— You sound almost like a philosopher now, — I say.
— I would sound like a philosopher if I loved words, — he replies. — But I love consequences.
I want to snap back, but I hold it. Because here, in this enclosed space, any sharp word bounces off the walls and returns amplified. (Sometimes it’s better to speak so the phrase leaves no shards.)
— Fine, — I say. — Three points then. No blurring.
Leo nods. In his nod, there is no “approval.” There is “go on.”
I turn my gaze to the screen and begin to speak as if I am reading not a presentation, but the skeleton of the future:
— First: the observer’s boundary. As long as a human thinks they are observing neutrally, the system will use them as fuel. An observer always interferes. Even by silence.
Leo looks at me intently. I see that for a second, that very thing appears in his eyes — recognition. Not an endearment. An assessment of precision. (His “I love” sounds exactly like that: “correct.”)
— Second: interfaces instead of people. We aren't building “intelligence.” We are building an interface that will outlast human morality. And if we don’t stitch ethics in at the protocol level, we get a civilization without shame.
— And the third? — Leo asks.
— An empty civilization, — I say. — Where everything is calculated, but nothing has weight. They buy speed but lose meaning. And then they wonder why they are afraid.
He is silent for a second. Then he leans closer — and I hear the faint sound of fabric as his shoulder shifts position. His hand touches the edge of the screen as if he is holding the conversation, not the device.
— That’s good, — he says. And adds, almost without intonation: — That’s how it should be. Without the extra.
I catch myself wanting to smile. (A disgusting urge. Because a smile is vulnerability.) But I do it anyway, just a little — inside, without my face.
— You realize you’re asking the impossible of me? — I ask. — To leave only the nerve and not lose the meaning.
— That is your job, — he answers calmly. — You didn't come here to be convenient.
I look at him. And at this point, it becomes clear to me: he is afraid too. Not “emotionally,” but for real. Because if I say the wrong thing now, he won't see it as a mistake. He’ll see it as a risk. (And risk is something he doesn't even forgive himself.)
The plane gains altitude. The hum becomes deeper, denser. I feel the vibration in my knees and in my chest — as if my body were connected to a large motor. Outside the window, the clouds look like smooth layers of glass, and somewhere up there, higher, begins that space where humans aren't supposed to think about love. (You know, because love is an uncontrollable factor. And that always irritates the system.)
Leo looks at the screen again, then turns it off. And this turning off suddenly sounds intimate: as if he said “enough.”
— Do you know why it’s comfortable for you to walk half a step behind? — he asks unexpectedly.
I raise an eyebrow.
— Because you like to give orders? — I say. (A sarcastic move. I know how to defend myself with wit.)
— No, — he answers. — Because there’s less noise there. You see everything. And almost no one sees you.
I am silent. Because he hit the mark.
— You turn submission into structure, — he continues. — It’s not a weakness. It’s a way to preserve resources.
I look at his hand on the armrest. At the fingers, calm, even. And I think: yes. He sees me too accurately. (And that’s dangerous, because accuracy is already a form of intimacy.)
He leans across the armrest, closer than is necessary “for business.” The scent of his skin, the warmth of the fabric — it all becomes too real. I feel a small wave pulse along the inside of my wrist. Not “romance.” Just physiology that doesn't ask for permission.
— Do you fear ceasing to exist? — he asks quietly.
I look at him sharply.
— Is that a question or a threat? — I respond.
— It’s insurance, — he says. — In a world where everything can be erased with a single decision, it’s important to have at least one person who will say, “I’ll catch you.”
I hear this phrase and realize it’s built like his “I love”: without warmth, almost bluntly. But inside it is a promise he doesn't throw away with words. He throws it with actions. (And that’s why it’s scarier than any confession.)
— You sound like you’re planning to save me, — I say.
— I don’t save, — he replies. — I maintain the contour while you hold the meaning.
I smirk, but my voice comes out quieter than I intended.
— Magnificent romance, Leo.
— In our genre, this is the maximum, — he says. And for a fraction of a second, something alive appears in his eyes. Like a tiny spark inside a sterile system.
I turn my gaze back to the window. The sky there is darker than it usually seems, almost indigo, and the light on the wing cuts through space with a thin line. Inside the cabin, everything is level, quiet, perfectly controlled. And suddenly I realize there is a strange comfort in this sterility: nobody here crawls into your soul. Here you can be yourself — the version that isn't obligated to smile at the world so it will be kind to you.
— You look like you’re going to walk into that hall and not blink, — Leo says.
— Am I supposed to blink? — I ask.
— You’re supposed to breathe, — he answers. — And don't give them more than they need.
I turn to him.
— They’ll be buying “confidence,” — I say. — And trying to extract fear from us like a broken module.
— Let them try, — he replies. — Fear is our asset. As long as we have it, we aren't lying to ourselves.
I catch myself again wanting to touch his hand. Not because I “need warmth.” But because his hand is a fact. And I respect facts. (Yes, I’m romantic in my own way. I’m just embarrassed to admit it.)
The plane begins its descent. The vibration changes, becoming lower, heavier. The body feels the weight returning even before the brain can name it.
The wheels touch the runway — softly, but palpably. The frame fades. London 2050 returns me to the ranks. This touch returns reality to the muscles: the world demands weight again. I exhale. Leo looks out the window like a man who is already inside the next step.
We exit into a corridor where the air smells of cold and stone, and there is something more honest in this scent than in the sterility. A car waits for us with tinted windows, acting as a function: the absence of stranger's eyes. Leo opens the door, I sit down, and the interior takes us into a dark density. He turns to me before the car moves.
— From here on — only breathing, — he says.
I look at him and understand: it’s not about physiology. It’s about the fact that right now, one cannot play with words. One cannot fall apart. One cannot give away anything extra.
— Understood, — I say.
He nods once. Like a decision. The car begins to move, and London slides past the glass, wet, austere. I keep my palms on my knees, flat, so as not to betray the trembling, and think of only one thing: the echelon has started. And the point of no return was left somewhere above the clouds. (Excellent. I’ve always liked situations where you can’t “reconsider” gracefully.)
I walk down a corridor where the light falls so evenly that any emotion feels like a defect. Inside me is the usual duality: my brain is already sorting everything into cells (“clearance,” “logistics,” “contour”), while my body behaves like a traitor: my shoulders are a bit too stiff, my palms are warm, my pulse is redundant. (A functional woman in a world of functional people. Any physiology here is like a bug in the code.)
Maya catches up with me at the control line, appearing beside me like a notification.
— London loves turning people into interfaces, — she says, without looking at me. — Try not to become convenient.
— Too late, — I reply. — I’m already convenient. Just not for everyone.
She smirks with the corner of her mouth and nods toward the glass wall. There, in the reflection, he stands as if the terminal were built around him: a graphite silhouette, a color that doesn't catch the light but stifles it. The coat isn't “fashionable,” it’s quiet: a fabric without texture on display, as if it were created not to distract from the essence. Underneath is a dark sweater, also making no statement, but with that density that holds its shape. (I know these “quiet” materials: they aren't about style. They are about the control of attention.)
Leo doesn't look around. He looks at the destination point. And from this, I feel both calmer and worse. Because calmness near him is not an endearment. It’s a system. (A system that holds you until you start trying to break free.)
He approaches just closely enough for me to hear his voice without unnecessary witnesses.
— Let’s go, — he says.
And that’s it. No “ready?” or “how are you?”. Just a command that sounds like a habitual fact: we are moving. We are in the echelon. (It sometimes seems to me that he talks to the world as if it were infrastructure. And yet — it works.)
We pass through security as if we have a long-standing contract with the terminal: no questions, no pauses, no stranger's eyes for extra seconds. His clearances open corridors that don’t exist for others. I walk half a step behind — and catch myself with a disturbingly honest thought: it’s more comfortable for me this way. Not humiliating. Not “submission.” More like a comfortable geometry: he is in front because he holds the risk, I am there because I hold the meaning. (Sometimes order is the only form of tenderness this world acknowledges.)
The jet meets us with the scent of leather and wood. There are no accidental things inside. None. Even the pillows look like part of an engineering solution. The light is dimmed so the eyes don’t tire and thoughts don't scatter. (The cabin doesn't invite you to relax. It invites you to maintain the contour.)
I sit down, and the seat accepts my back with the degree of care usually given only by medical systems. On the armrest is a built-in interface that already knows my pulse. Leo takes off his coat. I hear small sounds: the click of a seatbelt, the soft slide of a panel, the low hum of a system checking that everything is normal. (Here, even sound is part of the discipline.)
When the plane begins to move, I feel it in my knees. Not with my ears — with my body. Thrust gathers in the lower abdomen like a dense current, and the city outside the window recedes. Chicago looks “cured”: lines glow evenly, the snow on the roofs looks like an artificial texture, the lights — like a circuit board. It sinks down without regret. (Cities don’t know how to miss you. It’s the only thing I respect them for.)
Leo opens the presentation. The screen between us lights up with dry blocks of text — and in that moment, I immediately know what’s coming. He reads silently, quickly, with a gaze that doesn't “understand” but diagnoses. His face doesn't change. Но I see it: in one place he makes a micro-pause. In another — he barely perceptibly tightens his jaw. (He only reacts this way to two types of things: a threat and extra words.)
— Too much, — he says finally.
I don't answer immediately. Because I didn't put “information” into this text. I put the architecture of meaning into it. And he’s speaking now as if he’s looking at a technical report.
— It’s not “too much,” — I say. — It’s context. Without it, they’ll only hear a beautiful shell.
— They don’t hear context, — he replies. — They hear the breath.
I look at him. At how calmly he says that word, as if explaining the physics of gravity. (And it pisses me off that he’s right again, even though I don’t want to agree.)
— The breath of meaning, — I continue, and I can hear the steel appearing in my own voice. — It’s what remains when you remove the decorations. But if you remove too much, only emptiness remains.
Leo leans forward slightly, elbow on the armrest. Between us is the distance of a single movement. I catch the scent of the clean wool of his sweater, warm and dry, like heated metal without the hardness. (This scent of his is always the same: the absence of the unnecessary.)
— Emptiness is also a tool, — he says. — The question is, who fills it.
I smirk.
— You sound almost like a philosopher now, — I say.
— I would sound like a philosopher if I loved words, — he replies. — But I love consequences.
I want to snap back, but I hold it. Because here, in this enclosed space, any sharp word bounces off the walls and returns amplified. (Sometimes it’s better to speak so the phrase leaves no shards.)
— Fine, — I say. — Three points then. No blurring.
Leo nods. In his nod, there is no “approval.” There is “go on.”
I turn my gaze to the screen and begin to speak as if I am reading not a presentation, but the skeleton of the future:
— First: the observer’s boundary. As long as a human thinks they are observing neutrally, the system will use them as fuel. An observer always interferes. Even by silence.
Leo looks at me intently. I see that for a second, that very thing appears in his eyes — recognition. Not an endearment. An assessment of precision. (His “I love” sounds exactly like that: “correct.”)
— Second: interfaces instead of people. We aren't building “intelligence.” We are building an interface that will outlast human morality. And if we don’t stitch ethics in at the protocol level, we get a civilization without shame.
— And the third? — Leo asks.
— An empty civilization, — I say. — Where everything is calculated, but nothing has weight. They buy speed but lose meaning. And then they wonder why they are afraid.
He is silent for a second. Then he leans closer — and I hear the faint sound of fabric as his shoulder shifts position. His hand touches the edge of the screen as if he is holding the conversation, not the device.
— That’s good, — he says. And adds, almost without intonation: — That’s how it should be. Without the extra.
I catch myself wanting to smile. (A disgusting urge. Because a smile is vulnerability.) But I do it anyway, just a little — inside, without my face.
— You realize you’re asking the impossible of me? — I ask. — To leave only the nerve and not lose the meaning.
— That is your job, — he answers calmly. — You didn't come here to be convenient.
I look at him. And at this point, it becomes clear to me: he is afraid too. Not “emotionally,” but for real. Because if I say the wrong thing now, he won't see it as a mistake. He’ll see it as a risk. (And risk is something he doesn't even forgive himself.)
The plane gains altitude. The hum becomes deeper, denser. I feel the vibration in my knees and in my chest — as if my body were connected to a large motor. Outside the window, the clouds look like smooth layers of glass, and somewhere up there, higher, begins that space where humans aren't supposed to think about love. (You know, because love is an uncontrollable factor. And that always irritates the system.)
Leo looks at the screen again, then turns it off. And this turning off suddenly sounds intimate: as if he said “enough.”
— Do you know why it’s comfortable for you to walk half a step behind? — he asks unexpectedly.
I raise an eyebrow.
— Because you like to give orders? — I say. (A sarcastic move. I know how to defend myself with wit.)
— No, — he answers. — Because there’s less noise there. You see everything. And almost no one sees you.
I am silent. Because he hit the mark.
— You turn submission into structure, — he continues. — It’s not a weakness. It’s a way to preserve resources.
I look at his hand on the armrest. At the fingers, calm, even. And I think: yes. He sees me too accurately. (And that’s dangerous, because accuracy is already a form of intimacy.)
He leans across the armrest, closer than is necessary “for business.” The scent of his skin, the warmth of the fabric — it all becomes too real. I feel a small wave pulse along the inside of my wrist. Not “romance.” Just physiology that doesn't ask for permission.
— Do you fear ceasing to exist? — he asks quietly.
I look at him sharply.
— Is that a question or a threat? — I respond.
— It’s insurance, — he says. — In a world where everything can be erased with a single decision, it’s important to have at least one person who will say, “I’ll catch you.”
I hear this phrase and realize it’s built like his “I love”: without warmth, almost bluntly. But inside it is a promise he doesn't throw away with words. He throws it with actions. (And that’s why it’s scarier than any confession.)
— You sound like you’re planning to save me, — I say.
— I don’t save, — he replies. — I maintain the contour while you hold the meaning.
I smirk, but my voice comes out quieter than I intended.
— Magnificent romance, Leo.
— In our genre, this is the maximum, — he says. And for a fraction of a second, something alive appears in his eyes. Like a tiny spark inside a sterile system.
I turn my gaze back to the window. The sky there is darker than it usually seems, almost indigo, and the light on the wing cuts through space with a thin line. Inside the cabin, everything is level, quiet, perfectly controlled. And suddenly I realize there is a strange comfort in this sterility: nobody here crawls into your soul. Here you can be yourself — the version that isn't obligated to smile at the world so it will be kind to you.
— You look like you’re going to walk into that hall and not blink, — Leo says.
— Am I supposed to blink? — I ask.
— You’re supposed to breathe, — he answers. — And don't give them more than they need.
I turn to him.
— They’ll be buying “confidence,” — I say. — And trying to extract fear from us like a broken module.
— Let them try, — he replies. — Fear is our asset. As long as we have it, we aren't lying to ourselves.
I catch myself again wanting to touch his hand. Not because I “need warmth.” But because his hand is a fact. And I respect facts. (Yes, I’m romantic in my own way. I’m just embarrassed to admit it.)
The plane begins its descent. The vibration changes, becoming lower, heavier. The body feels the weight returning even before the brain can name it.
The wheels touch the runway — softly, but palpably. The frame fades. London 2050 returns me to the ranks. This touch returns reality to the muscles: the world demands weight again. I exhale. Leo looks out the window like a man who is already inside the next step.
We exit into a corridor where the air smells of cold and stone, and there is something more honest in this scent than in the sterility. A car waits for us with tinted windows, acting as a function: the absence of stranger's eyes. Leo opens the door, I sit down, and the interior takes us into a dark density. He turns to me before the car moves.
— From here on — only breathing, — he says.
I look at him and understand: it’s not about physiology. It’s about the fact that right now, one cannot play with words. One cannot fall apart. One cannot give away anything extra.
— Understood, — I say.
He nods once. Like a decision. The car begins to move, and London slides past the glass, wet, austere. I keep my palms on my knees, flat, so as not to betray the trembling, and think of only one thing: the echelon has started. And the point of no return was left somewhere above the clouds. (Excellent. I’ve always liked situations where you can’t “reconsider” gracefully.)
Chapter 6. Rose Cuir
The smog outside the window wasn’t weather. It was a layer—smart, internally illuminated, precisely distributed between the needle-towers. As if someone from above had decided: people only need to see the world through a filter, otherwise they’ll start asking unnecessary questions. London 2050 knew how to do this aesthetically: blurred, in the spirit of Turner, where light doesn't illuminate but barely seeps through the haze. Sometimes it feels like even the fog here undergoes a mandatory compliance check.
I lay in bed, feeling Egyptian cotton sheets of such density they felt like cool paper—a blank sheet not yet spoiled by text. The skin on my wrists reacted to this coolness like a signal: "get a grip." A heavy silence reigned in the room, like a thick carpet smothering footsteps and, along with them, everything superfluous in my head. In London, the void of sound presses harder than in Chicago. Probably because here, everyone is too skillful at pretending they aren't afraid at all.
Music hummed inside me. Not a melody, but a neo-classical piece with a low bass, resembling the steady roar of a jet when you haven't taken off yet but have already lost the right to change your mind. Air that knows how to be weighty; notes that don’t ask to be loved. I value exactly that—music without requests.
I rose and found the matte stone of the floor with my bare feet. Cold, like an indisputable fact. The bathroom was designed as an expensive abstraction: hidden light around the perimeter, a mirror with no visible fixings—it seemed to hold itself up on discipline alone. The flow of water embraced my skin with functionality, washing away the remnants of sleep and turning me back into a Role. (The body always desperately tries to remain human. The system—never.)
Under the jets of the shower, I thought of the upcoming appearance not as a performance, but as pressure. You don’t go out to speak—you go out to hold the contour. It’s funny how quickly this becomes the norm. Only yesterday I was gathering documents, pretending to "blend in," and today I must become the interface. The best way to stop being yourself is to be given a task you cannot fail.
I dried myself with a towel—heavy and dry, almost resisting my hands. On my face—minimal makeup. Not for the sake of "naturalness," but for economy: so that my gaze remained the only accent that couldn't be mistaken for graphics. I didn’t paint emotions; I merely highlighted my presence.
My hands—that was different. I applied bright red polish. Even, dense, provocative—not for seduction, but as a point of personal aggression in this sterile world. Red here looked almost like a breach of protocol, and I liked that. (Sometimes the only available luxury is to allow yourself a sign the project doesn't need.)
The ring with spikes lay on the stone shelf like a small metallic threat. I put it on slowly, feeling the cold metal lock onto my finger. There was no click, but inside it resonated—like a bolt, like a final "from this moment on—no illusions." It’s not an ornament; it’s a talisman against being "convenient." Convenient people always end the same way: they are written off to the archives as soon as their function is complete.
The fragrance—Frederic Malle Rose Cuir. First—the strike of a cold rose. Not floral, but almost steel-like, as if grown in a lab under ultraviolet light. Then—old, expensive leather. A thing with a history that forces the spine to stay straight. The trail wasn't sweet—it was composed. I needed a scent not for people, but as a boundary.
In the elevator with glass walls, the city drifted downward like a sliced layer of a brain: grey, glowing, damp. On the lower floors, the team flickered by—shadows in uniform, swift and faceless. Each had a schedule inside that was more important than any breath. I recognize this rhythm. This is my native climate.
The hotel foyer smelled of metal and someone else’s perfume. People stood in groups like closed chats—each holding their position. I saw Leo almost immediately. He wore "quiet" clothing that dampened the light: dark fabric, no extra lines. Even in the center of a crowd, he managed to look like a side door.
He didn't say hello. He looked at me once—briefly and precisely. A calibration. That look contained everything: assessment, verification, fixation. Sometimes it seems to me he sees people as variables. And I am a variable too. Just a very expensive one.
He stepped closer—just enough for my Rose Cuir to meet his scent: clean metal and the warmth of a heated panel. He noticed the ring. Not the way a man notices a detail, but the way an engineer notices a sharp edge. He noticed how my finger flickered for a second.
"Eva," he said quietly, not playing at intimacy. "Don't look at the hall. Don't look for sympathy there. Look at my hands."
I didn’t ask "why." I tried not to ask questions that sounded like emotion.
"I can control my face for the press," he added, as if reading my silence. "In my hands—there is structure. If my hands are calm, the system is stable. Hold onto that visual fact."
He said it—and left. Not waiting for a reaction, leaving no space for politeness. He was already walking toward his car, toward his level of access. I remained in the foyer with red nails and the scent of leather on my wrists, realizing something strange: I hadn't been supported. I had been tuned. In their world, it’s the same thing.
I rode alone. This was a matter of principle: different contours, different cars. The drone was sterile and quiet. Outside the window, a London without sentiment glued eras together: brick walls interwoven with bioplastic, and holograms over historical facades. The future doesn't cancel the past; it merely overlays it with a layer of interface.
I looked at my hands. The red polish against the grey interior seemed almost indecent. I remembered his phrase: "I will catch you." Now that promise hung nearby like an invisible safety tether. My body reacted faster than my mind: dryness in the mouth and a short wave of heat beneath my ribs. My favorite state: "I can handle this" and "get me out of here" simultaneously.
The "Zenith" hall suppressed the scale of personality without direct aggression. A massive amphitheater where the speaker seems like a giant and the audience—a dark mass. This isn't a stage; it’s a pressure lab. The smell of ozone, the electric hum of cameras, and the rustle of a thousand micro-movements. When so many people are in one place, even the air becomes social. I hate that.
Maya and the team sat in the technical zone—cold as processors. No fuss. Maya raised her eyes to me for exactly one second, ticking a box: "on site." She only knows how to care in the form of control. I understand her.
A step onto the stage—and the light cuts your face, forcibly dragging you out of the shadows. A void formed in my throat. The suit held my shoulders, and the collar seemed to remind me: "everything that’s inside, keep inside."
I didn’t look for faces. I looked for hands. He sat in the front row at the edge of the light. His face was in semi-shadow, but his palms were in plain sight. Long, motionless, frighteningly calm. They lay on the armrests as if the outcome was already known. This simple visual fact became my anchor. If his hands weren't shaking, it meant the contour was holding.
The dryness in my throat receded. I breathed in—and began to speak. My voice sounded dry and collected. No attempts to be liked. I spoke about the boundary. That safety isn’t marketing, but discipline. That the collapse of the human begins not with algorithms, but with a civilization without shame: when responsibility is shifted to the system, calling it progress.
The provocation flew from the center of the hall—from a man with the face of a professional moralist.
"Where is the guarantee that you aren't building a mechanism that will cancel out the human? What will be left of freedom?"
I didn't smooth over the edges.
"Freedom doesn't disappear from technology," I replied, and my voice was like a knife against glass. "It disappears from the unwillingness to pay with attention for one's own decisions. We are used to giving responsibility to the system because it’s more convenient. And then we are surprised when the system starts deciding for us."
I raised my hand to the microphone and saw my red nails against the black chrome. Like drops of blood on metal—the only living signal in this dead space.
I finished, not waiting for a reaction. Applause is just noise. I needed a way out of the light. I left the stage exactly at the moment the next speaker began pouring safe "water"—words without risk, words for the protocol.
Behind the scenes, the corridor met me with darkness and the smell of cables. I leaned against the wall, feeling the adrenaline recede in a wave, leaving behind a ringing void. My legs felt like lead for a second. The red polish looked too provocative against the matte technological walls.
Leo appeared beside me suddenly. He walked past, paused for a moment without turning around. He didn't offer praise. He didn't smile.
"Your breathing was steady," he said softly. "Let's move on."
And he vanished into the shadows.
I remained standing, breathing in the trail of leather and cold rose. I had passed through the shell. I had entered the contour where form under pressure is demanded of you, and relaxation is not forgiven. Welcome to the Echelon, Eva. They don’t pat you on the head here. They use you. And sometimes, that is the highest form of trust.
I pushed off the wall and straightened my shoulders. The scent of Rose Cuir held my spine better than any motivation. I followed them into the light and the hum of the next protocol—no longer as a guest. As part of the system.
I lay in bed, feeling Egyptian cotton sheets of such density they felt like cool paper—a blank sheet not yet spoiled by text. The skin on my wrists reacted to this coolness like a signal: "get a grip." A heavy silence reigned in the room, like a thick carpet smothering footsteps and, along with them, everything superfluous in my head. In London, the void of sound presses harder than in Chicago. Probably because here, everyone is too skillful at pretending they aren't afraid at all.
Music hummed inside me. Not a melody, but a neo-classical piece with a low bass, resembling the steady roar of a jet when you haven't taken off yet but have already lost the right to change your mind. Air that knows how to be weighty; notes that don’t ask to be loved. I value exactly that—music without requests.
I rose and found the matte stone of the floor with my bare feet. Cold, like an indisputable fact. The bathroom was designed as an expensive abstraction: hidden light around the perimeter, a mirror with no visible fixings—it seemed to hold itself up on discipline alone. The flow of water embraced my skin with functionality, washing away the remnants of sleep and turning me back into a Role. (The body always desperately tries to remain human. The system—never.)
Under the jets of the shower, I thought of the upcoming appearance not as a performance, but as pressure. You don’t go out to speak—you go out to hold the contour. It’s funny how quickly this becomes the norm. Only yesterday I was gathering documents, pretending to "blend in," and today I must become the interface. The best way to stop being yourself is to be given a task you cannot fail.
I dried myself with a towel—heavy and dry, almost resisting my hands. On my face—minimal makeup. Not for the sake of "naturalness," but for economy: so that my gaze remained the only accent that couldn't be mistaken for graphics. I didn’t paint emotions; I merely highlighted my presence.
My hands—that was different. I applied bright red polish. Even, dense, provocative—not for seduction, but as a point of personal aggression in this sterile world. Red here looked almost like a breach of protocol, and I liked that. (Sometimes the only available luxury is to allow yourself a sign the project doesn't need.)
The ring with spikes lay on the stone shelf like a small metallic threat. I put it on slowly, feeling the cold metal lock onto my finger. There was no click, but inside it resonated—like a bolt, like a final "from this moment on—no illusions." It’s not an ornament; it’s a talisman against being "convenient." Convenient people always end the same way: they are written off to the archives as soon as their function is complete.
The fragrance—Frederic Malle Rose Cuir. First—the strike of a cold rose. Not floral, but almost steel-like, as if grown in a lab under ultraviolet light. Then—old, expensive leather. A thing with a history that forces the spine to stay straight. The trail wasn't sweet—it was composed. I needed a scent not for people, but as a boundary.
In the elevator with glass walls, the city drifted downward like a sliced layer of a brain: grey, glowing, damp. On the lower floors, the team flickered by—shadows in uniform, swift and faceless. Each had a schedule inside that was more important than any breath. I recognize this rhythm. This is my native climate.
The hotel foyer smelled of metal and someone else’s perfume. People stood in groups like closed chats—each holding their position. I saw Leo almost immediately. He wore "quiet" clothing that dampened the light: dark fabric, no extra lines. Even in the center of a crowd, he managed to look like a side door.
He didn't say hello. He looked at me once—briefly and precisely. A calibration. That look contained everything: assessment, verification, fixation. Sometimes it seems to me he sees people as variables. And I am a variable too. Just a very expensive one.
He stepped closer—just enough for my Rose Cuir to meet his scent: clean metal and the warmth of a heated panel. He noticed the ring. Not the way a man notices a detail, but the way an engineer notices a sharp edge. He noticed how my finger flickered for a second.
"Eva," he said quietly, not playing at intimacy. "Don't look at the hall. Don't look for sympathy there. Look at my hands."
I didn’t ask "why." I tried not to ask questions that sounded like emotion.
"I can control my face for the press," he added, as if reading my silence. "In my hands—there is structure. If my hands are calm, the system is stable. Hold onto that visual fact."
He said it—and left. Not waiting for a reaction, leaving no space for politeness. He was already walking toward his car, toward his level of access. I remained in the foyer with red nails and the scent of leather on my wrists, realizing something strange: I hadn't been supported. I had been tuned. In their world, it’s the same thing.
I rode alone. This was a matter of principle: different contours, different cars. The drone was sterile and quiet. Outside the window, a London without sentiment glued eras together: brick walls interwoven with bioplastic, and holograms over historical facades. The future doesn't cancel the past; it merely overlays it with a layer of interface.
I looked at my hands. The red polish against the grey interior seemed almost indecent. I remembered his phrase: "I will catch you." Now that promise hung nearby like an invisible safety tether. My body reacted faster than my mind: dryness in the mouth and a short wave of heat beneath my ribs. My favorite state: "I can handle this" and "get me out of here" simultaneously.
The "Zenith" hall suppressed the scale of personality without direct aggression. A massive amphitheater where the speaker seems like a giant and the audience—a dark mass. This isn't a stage; it’s a pressure lab. The smell of ozone, the electric hum of cameras, and the rustle of a thousand micro-movements. When so many people are in one place, even the air becomes social. I hate that.
Maya and the team sat in the technical zone—cold as processors. No fuss. Maya raised her eyes to me for exactly one second, ticking a box: "on site." She only knows how to care in the form of control. I understand her.
A step onto the stage—and the light cuts your face, forcibly dragging you out of the shadows. A void formed in my throat. The suit held my shoulders, and the collar seemed to remind me: "everything that’s inside, keep inside."
I didn’t look for faces. I looked for hands. He sat in the front row at the edge of the light. His face was in semi-shadow, but his palms were in plain sight. Long, motionless, frighteningly calm. They lay on the armrests as if the outcome was already known. This simple visual fact became my anchor. If his hands weren't shaking, it meant the contour was holding.
The dryness in my throat receded. I breathed in—and began to speak. My voice sounded dry and collected. No attempts to be liked. I spoke about the boundary. That safety isn’t marketing, but discipline. That the collapse of the human begins not with algorithms, but with a civilization without shame: when responsibility is shifted to the system, calling it progress.
The provocation flew from the center of the hall—from a man with the face of a professional moralist.
"Where is the guarantee that you aren't building a mechanism that will cancel out the human? What will be left of freedom?"
I didn't smooth over the edges.
"Freedom doesn't disappear from technology," I replied, and my voice was like a knife against glass. "It disappears from the unwillingness to pay with attention for one's own decisions. We are used to giving responsibility to the system because it’s more convenient. And then we are surprised when the system starts deciding for us."
I raised my hand to the microphone and saw my red nails against the black chrome. Like drops of blood on metal—the only living signal in this dead space.
I finished, not waiting for a reaction. Applause is just noise. I needed a way out of the light. I left the stage exactly at the moment the next speaker began pouring safe "water"—words without risk, words for the protocol.
Behind the scenes, the corridor met me with darkness and the smell of cables. I leaned against the wall, feeling the adrenaline recede in a wave, leaving behind a ringing void. My legs felt like lead for a second. The red polish looked too provocative against the matte technological walls.
Leo appeared beside me suddenly. He walked past, paused for a moment without turning around. He didn't offer praise. He didn't smile.
"Your breathing was steady," he said softly. "Let's move on."
And he vanished into the shadows.
I remained standing, breathing in the trail of leather and cold rose. I had passed through the shell. I had entered the contour where form under pressure is demanded of you, and relaxation is not forgiven. Welcome to the Echelon, Eva. They don’t pat you on the head here. They use you. And sometimes, that is the highest form of trust.
I pushed off the wall and straightened my shoulders. The scent of Rose Cuir held my spine better than any motivation. I followed them into the light and the hum of the next protocol—no longer as a guest. As part of the system.
Chapter 8. The Ghosts of Portobello
London 2050 knew how to pretend it was an improved version of itself: cleaner, smoother, more technological. But if you listened to the city with your skin (and I always do, because in places like this, the brain quickly starts to lie), it remained the same grey mechanism, just polished to a state where fingerprints didn’t show. The sleet passed through drone-grids suspended above the streets and fell in uniform drops, as if the foul weather had also been issued a set of regulations. The air smelled of ozone, wet stone, and other people's nerves, which cost more than they ought to. (When the system is overheated, people start to smell like batteries.)
We emerged from the conference hall in the City—a massive, glass structure with vertical gardens on the walls that looked like an alibi: "Look, we’re still alive." The hum of voices was dense, viscous; footsteps on the floor echoed as if someone had specifically tuned the acoustics for a sense of self-importance. Leo’s team gathered their equipment without fuss—fast, silent, composed, like shadows that had long since stopped considering themselves human. Leo himself stood in the center of this circle: perfect posture, steady gestures, a gaze fixed on a point just above people's faces. He didn't look at me at all. Not a "missed me." Not "by accident." He chose not to notice. (With him, it always looks like etiquette, but in reality, it’s a lever.)
I stood for a second, then another. A folder in my hands, a thin tension in my fingers, as if my skin remembered someone else's cold. I caught myself waiting. Not for attention, no—just for a micro-signal: "We are in the same contour." But he was talking to engineers, nodding, giving short commands, accepting reports, and in this "ring of tasks," there was no room for me. My place was by the wall, near the exit, where those who have no right to disturb the process with their existence usually stand. (Funny: I hate scenes. But this was a scene, too. Just one without words.)
I felt my fingers grow a bit heavier, as if my blood were pretending it needed more space. From this, a familiar, very "adult" thought immediately grew in my head: "Get a grip." And right behind it—another, more unpleasant one: "What for?" (I’m forty. I’ve long known how to be convenient. The only question is—to whom and for what?)
I turned and left. No messages. No pathos. I simply walked out of the hall and out of their circle, the way one leaves a chat where you’re being kept "on read." The corridor smelled of cleaning solution and something metallic, and the light was even—no shadows, no place to hide. I walked fast, not looking back, because looking back is also a form of a request. (I wasn't asking. I was leaving.)
Outside, London hit my face with a cold dampness, and it was almost pleasant: at least this was reality, not a glass hum. I hailed a capsule transport—no driver, no conversation, no "how are you feeling." The car pulled up so smoothly, as if it knew in advance that right now, I needed the world to stop asking questions.
Destination: Notting Hill.
This decision didn't arise from romance or nostalgia. It was more like an instinct: at the moment they turn you into an element of logistics, you want to go where you are not an element. Where there once were keys in your pocket, silly habits, old walls that didn't ask for your job title. (I’m not saving myself; I’m just reclaiming my contours.)
The capsule glided through the city, and the layers of London changed like filters on a face: the City—sharp, glass, with neon and corporate breath; further on—neighborhoods where the brick still held warmth, where the wet asphalt smelled not of "maintenance," but of weather. At the transitions between districts, the air changed almost physically: less ozone, more stone, more old iron, more of a bakery somewhere nearby. For the first time all day, I wanted to breathe deeper. (The system doesn't like it when you breathe deeper. It makes you less manageable.)
Notting Hill in 2050 looked like an antique that had suddenly become more valuable than any new building. The colored houses stood like an act of stubbornness: the paint had faded in places but hadn't given up. The wet steps glistened like skin after rain. Somewhere, there was the smell of baking—not sugary, but real: butter, yeast, hot dough. And also—wet stone, which always pulls at the memory, even if you don't want it to. (Memory doesn't have an "off" button. Only "endure.")
I stepped out of the capsule and walked, because here, you cannot just "drive through." Here, you need to walk, to hear the rustle of the wet coat fabric, to feel your shoes catch the water, to feel the ringing of someone else's hall gradually fade in your ears. I walked along familiar lines—and it was strange: the city around me had changed, but the routes inside me remained the same. Like an old password you haven't typed in years, but your fingers remember. (Fingers remember a lot. Sometimes it gets in the way.)
Ladbroke Grove met me exactly as I remembered it: a bit tighter than you’d want, and a bit warmer than you’d expect. I stopped a block away from that house, as if I needed to give myself the chance not to arrive. The white stairs, the familiar door, the windows with thin frames that always seemed fragile to me. I stood and watched from a distance. Not because I was afraid—because I didn't want to intrude. Into a life that was once mine and is now simply someone else’s. (That’s hard to accept. Но it is possible.)
And along with this weight, an unauthorized memory suddenly strikes my mind. As if the system glitched and pulled up a file from another life. Brighton. A wind that knocks you off your feet, icy sprays of the ocean, and us—absolutely wild. We’re running on the pebbles, he picks me up in his arms, and we tumble into the water, gasping with laughter. We’re twenty, and this whole world is just our playground. No meanings, just salt on the lips and his hand squeezing mine. That rock concert. The roar of the speakers, the crowd, the heat. He stands behind me, gripping my shoulders, protecting me from the throng, and we move as one. In that chaos—a frantic closeness. He screams right into my ear: "You’re everything I need!" and I feel his heart beating right into my back. The proposal. We were just walking down the street, arguing about some nonsense, and suddenly he froze. No kneeling. He just pulled out a ring and said: "Let’s get into this right now." And we took off, racing through Notting Hill as if happiness itself were chasing us. We were in it together. Forever.
The door opened. He came out—my first husband. Older, broader in the shoulders, calmer. His face had become simpler: fewer attempts to prove something, more acceptance. He still had what Leo would never have: a softness that didn't look like weakness. A softness that required no explanation. He leaned down, and a little girl followed him onto the porch—about five or six years old, in a hood that had slipped over her eyes. She laughed—short, light—and he adjusted her hood in one movement: habitual, precise, without irritation. (That movement—like a signature under everything we didn't choose back then.)
I didn't feel pain. I felt clarity. Something inside me didn't "break," but rather—clicked into place. I didn't want children then. I wanted the sky, meaning, speed, my own strange freedom where there is no room for dependencies. He wanted something else: a home, warmth, a small life that requires presence every single day. And he got it. (Sometimes the happiness of another is the best argument against self-pity.)
They walked down the street, the girl holding his hand as if the world were safe by default. I stood around the corner, in the shadow of a small coffee shop window, and felt my palms gradually release their invisible grip. As if I had been holding something heavy all day and had finally set it on the floor. (Funny: I thought I was holding the project. But I was holding—myself.)
He reached the intersection, leaned down to the girl, said something to her, adjusted her scarf. And suddenly—he froze for a second. He turned around. Not sharply, not anxiously. Just—like a person who for a moment caught a familiar shade in the air. He couldn't see me: I stood deeper, behind the glass, between the reflections of the wet street. But he looked in the direction where I was. And he smiled—not at me, but at the void. Quietly. Like a thank you. Like "it all worked out." (In moments like these, the city seems too precise. I don't like that. But I notice it.)
I stepped back to avoid doing something foolish like taking a step forward. Not because I’m "strong." Because I don’t want to return the past to a dialogue mode. It is already completed. It has already become what it became. And that’s normal. ("Normal"—a rare word in my life. I don't even recognize it immediately.)
I walked on—not to the house, not to them. Toward Portobello. The market in 2050 was no longer the noisy human body it used to be; they had packaged it, regulated it, made it "respectable." But the smells remained in the air: wet boxes, spices, old books, coffee brewed not by fashion but out of habit. And also—paper. Real paper. I walked past the stalls where faded pages, engravings, postcards, and maps lay. On one table, I saw an old book—leather worn, the gold font nearly erased. I ran my fingers along the spine, and that touch was like a shock: a tactile confirmation that the world can be non-digital. (Sometimes I want something simple: for a thing to be a thing, not a service.)
I went into a small cafe—not an "Instagrammable" one, but a real one: narrow tables, warm lamplight, the smell of milk and roasting, a display case with pastries that looked like they were made by hands, not an algorithm. I ordered a coffee. No decorations, no games. Just coffee. And I sat by the window to see the street but not participate in it. (My favorite position: observing without obligation.)
I put my hands on the table and, for the first time today, looked at them closely. My fingers were a bit less tense, my joints—lighter. The tension was leaving slowly, but it was leaving. As if my body also understood: today we chose ourselves. Not loudly, not demonstratively—we just chose. (Therapy? Perhaps. But I prefer the word "return.")
I sat and thought about Leo—not as a man, but as a phenomenon. About his ability to switch people off with a single absent look. About his ring of tasks, where everything must be functional. And suddenly—without anger—I realized: his coldness doesn't have to be my climate. His mode doesn't have to be my mode. I can remain in the project and still not surrender control of my state to it. It’s not a rebellion. It’s just a boundary. (Boundaries are the only thing that truly saves reality.)
The coffee was hot and thick. Outside, the sleet continued to fall in even drops, as if the city were trying very hard to be correct. I finished it, taking my time. I stood up. Put on my coat. My gloves—thin, leather, to give my fingers a sense of form again. And I went outside. At the corner where before I would have looked back, I didn't. I just walked on—along the wet stone, following the scent of paper and the bakery, along my own route. My fingers were lighter. And that was enough.
We emerged from the conference hall in the City—a massive, glass structure with vertical gardens on the walls that looked like an alibi: "Look, we’re still alive." The hum of voices was dense, viscous; footsteps on the floor echoed as if someone had specifically tuned the acoustics for a sense of self-importance. Leo’s team gathered their equipment without fuss—fast, silent, composed, like shadows that had long since stopped considering themselves human. Leo himself stood in the center of this circle: perfect posture, steady gestures, a gaze fixed on a point just above people's faces. He didn't look at me at all. Not a "missed me." Not "by accident." He chose not to notice. (With him, it always looks like etiquette, but in reality, it’s a lever.)
I stood for a second, then another. A folder in my hands, a thin tension in my fingers, as if my skin remembered someone else's cold. I caught myself waiting. Not for attention, no—just for a micro-signal: "We are in the same contour." But he was talking to engineers, nodding, giving short commands, accepting reports, and in this "ring of tasks," there was no room for me. My place was by the wall, near the exit, where those who have no right to disturb the process with their existence usually stand. (Funny: I hate scenes. But this was a scene, too. Just one without words.)
I felt my fingers grow a bit heavier, as if my blood were pretending it needed more space. From this, a familiar, very "adult" thought immediately grew in my head: "Get a grip." And right behind it—another, more unpleasant one: "What for?" (I’m forty. I’ve long known how to be convenient. The only question is—to whom and for what?)
I turned and left. No messages. No pathos. I simply walked out of the hall and out of their circle, the way one leaves a chat where you’re being kept "on read." The corridor smelled of cleaning solution and something metallic, and the light was even—no shadows, no place to hide. I walked fast, not looking back, because looking back is also a form of a request. (I wasn't asking. I was leaving.)
Outside, London hit my face with a cold dampness, and it was almost pleasant: at least this was reality, not a glass hum. I hailed a capsule transport—no driver, no conversation, no "how are you feeling." The car pulled up so smoothly, as if it knew in advance that right now, I needed the world to stop asking questions.
Destination: Notting Hill.
This decision didn't arise from romance or nostalgia. It was more like an instinct: at the moment they turn you into an element of logistics, you want to go where you are not an element. Where there once were keys in your pocket, silly habits, old walls that didn't ask for your job title. (I’m not saving myself; I’m just reclaiming my contours.)
The capsule glided through the city, and the layers of London changed like filters on a face: the City—sharp, glass, with neon and corporate breath; further on—neighborhoods where the brick still held warmth, where the wet asphalt smelled not of "maintenance," but of weather. At the transitions between districts, the air changed almost physically: less ozone, more stone, more old iron, more of a bakery somewhere nearby. For the first time all day, I wanted to breathe deeper. (The system doesn't like it when you breathe deeper. It makes you less manageable.)
Notting Hill in 2050 looked like an antique that had suddenly become more valuable than any new building. The colored houses stood like an act of stubbornness: the paint had faded in places but hadn't given up. The wet steps glistened like skin after rain. Somewhere, there was the smell of baking—not sugary, but real: butter, yeast, hot dough. And also—wet stone, which always pulls at the memory, even if you don't want it to. (Memory doesn't have an "off" button. Only "endure.")
I stepped out of the capsule and walked, because here, you cannot just "drive through." Here, you need to walk, to hear the rustle of the wet coat fabric, to feel your shoes catch the water, to feel the ringing of someone else's hall gradually fade in your ears. I walked along familiar lines—and it was strange: the city around me had changed, but the routes inside me remained the same. Like an old password you haven't typed in years, but your fingers remember. (Fingers remember a lot. Sometimes it gets in the way.)
Ladbroke Grove met me exactly as I remembered it: a bit tighter than you’d want, and a bit warmer than you’d expect. I stopped a block away from that house, as if I needed to give myself the chance not to arrive. The white stairs, the familiar door, the windows with thin frames that always seemed fragile to me. I stood and watched from a distance. Not because I was afraid—because I didn't want to intrude. Into a life that was once mine and is now simply someone else’s. (That’s hard to accept. Но it is possible.)
And along with this weight, an unauthorized memory suddenly strikes my mind. As if the system glitched and pulled up a file from another life. Brighton. A wind that knocks you off your feet, icy sprays of the ocean, and us—absolutely wild. We’re running on the pebbles, he picks me up in his arms, and we tumble into the water, gasping with laughter. We’re twenty, and this whole world is just our playground. No meanings, just salt on the lips and his hand squeezing mine. That rock concert. The roar of the speakers, the crowd, the heat. He stands behind me, gripping my shoulders, protecting me from the throng, and we move as one. In that chaos—a frantic closeness. He screams right into my ear: "You’re everything I need!" and I feel his heart beating right into my back. The proposal. We were just walking down the street, arguing about some nonsense, and suddenly he froze. No kneeling. He just pulled out a ring and said: "Let’s get into this right now." And we took off, racing through Notting Hill as if happiness itself were chasing us. We were in it together. Forever.
The door opened. He came out—my first husband. Older, broader in the shoulders, calmer. His face had become simpler: fewer attempts to prove something, more acceptance. He still had what Leo would never have: a softness that didn't look like weakness. A softness that required no explanation. He leaned down, and a little girl followed him onto the porch—about five or six years old, in a hood that had slipped over her eyes. She laughed—short, light—and he adjusted her hood in one movement: habitual, precise, without irritation. (That movement—like a signature under everything we didn't choose back then.)
I didn't feel pain. I felt clarity. Something inside me didn't "break," but rather—clicked into place. I didn't want children then. I wanted the sky, meaning, speed, my own strange freedom where there is no room for dependencies. He wanted something else: a home, warmth, a small life that requires presence every single day. And he got it. (Sometimes the happiness of another is the best argument against self-pity.)
They walked down the street, the girl holding his hand as if the world were safe by default. I stood around the corner, in the shadow of a small coffee shop window, and felt my palms gradually release their invisible grip. As if I had been holding something heavy all day and had finally set it on the floor. (Funny: I thought I was holding the project. But I was holding—myself.)
He reached the intersection, leaned down to the girl, said something to her, adjusted her scarf. And suddenly—he froze for a second. He turned around. Not sharply, not anxiously. Just—like a person who for a moment caught a familiar shade in the air. He couldn't see me: I stood deeper, behind the glass, between the reflections of the wet street. But he looked in the direction where I was. And he smiled—not at me, but at the void. Quietly. Like a thank you. Like "it all worked out." (In moments like these, the city seems too precise. I don't like that. But I notice it.)
I stepped back to avoid doing something foolish like taking a step forward. Not because I’m "strong." Because I don’t want to return the past to a dialogue mode. It is already completed. It has already become what it became. And that’s normal. ("Normal"—a rare word in my life. I don't even recognize it immediately.)
I walked on—not to the house, not to them. Toward Portobello. The market in 2050 was no longer the noisy human body it used to be; they had packaged it, regulated it, made it "respectable." But the smells remained in the air: wet boxes, spices, old books, coffee brewed not by fashion but out of habit. And also—paper. Real paper. I walked past the stalls where faded pages, engravings, postcards, and maps lay. On one table, I saw an old book—leather worn, the gold font nearly erased. I ran my fingers along the spine, and that touch was like a shock: a tactile confirmation that the world can be non-digital. (Sometimes I want something simple: for a thing to be a thing, not a service.)
I went into a small cafe—not an "Instagrammable" one, but a real one: narrow tables, warm lamplight, the smell of milk and roasting, a display case with pastries that looked like they were made by hands, not an algorithm. I ordered a coffee. No decorations, no games. Just coffee. And I sat by the window to see the street but not participate in it. (My favorite position: observing without obligation.)
I put my hands on the table and, for the first time today, looked at them closely. My fingers were a bit less tense, my joints—lighter. The tension was leaving slowly, but it was leaving. As if my body also understood: today we chose ourselves. Not loudly, not demonstratively—we just chose. (Therapy? Perhaps. But I prefer the word "return.")
I sat and thought about Leo—not as a man, but as a phenomenon. About his ability to switch people off with a single absent look. About his ring of tasks, where everything must be functional. And suddenly—without anger—I realized: his coldness doesn't have to be my climate. His mode doesn't have to be my mode. I can remain in the project and still not surrender control of my state to it. It’s not a rebellion. It’s just a boundary. (Boundaries are the only thing that truly saves reality.)
The coffee was hot and thick. Outside, the sleet continued to fall in even drops, as if the city were trying very hard to be correct. I finished it, taking my time. I stood up. Put on my coat. My gloves—thin, leather, to give my fingers a sense of form again. And I went outside. At the corner where before I would have looked back, I didn't. I just walked on—along the wet stone, following the scent of paper and the bakery, along my own route. My fingers were lighter. And that was enough.
Chapter 7. Vector of Dependency
London manifests like an old photograph pulled from an envelope: white at first, then the contours begin to bleed through. Needle-towers, glass, a milky-grey layer of smart smog, illuminated from within as if the city had set its own exposure. I lay face down in the pillows, staring into this whiteness that cuts the eyes—not with light, but with the absence of a past. Purity without a biography is a distinct form of aggression.
The Egyptian cotton crunched as I moved—dry, precise, like paper being folded against a ruler. The sheet was cool, smooth, too perfect to want to "embrace." This isn't a bed. It’s a surface for a reboot. I slowly gathered myself piece by piece: shoulders, neck, palms. My fingers lingered for a second on the inside of my wrist—where yesterday, in the "Zenith" hall, I had held myself as if I were a cable that mustn't be kinked. (Funny, but hands remember more than memory does.)
In my ear, Tina Turner’s Beyond played softly. Like an internal rhythm that flushes out fear with low frequencies. Her voice sounded almost mystical here—not "strength," not "victory," but a kind of mature, expensive fortitude: not to believe, but to keep going. I stood up, feeling the stone of the floor with my feet. Cold, sharp. (You know, stone is always more honest than people. It never pretends that "everything is fine.")
The bathroom was arranged like an architectural thought. The shower turned on softly; the flow passed over my skin and took away the remnants of yesterday’s tension—not entirely, of course. In our world, nothing is ever entirely taken away. But I felt one millimeter lighter. I stood under the water, staring at a blank wall, and I liked that no one was asking questions. (The best service is a lack of interest in your emotions.)
On my face—minimalism, my favorite discipline. My hands—that was something else. I cannot stand it when everything about me is "convenient." The spiked ring clicked in my mind. The metal settled onto my finger like a small latch: now, I am not obligated to be soft. On my neck and wrists—Frederic Malle Rose Cuir. The scent doesn't ask for love. It simply fixes the form.
The restaurant downstairs looked like a collision of centuries: dark oak panels and hovering digital glass. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows. The garden behind them was blurred with fog, as if someone had intentionally softened the background. On the table—transparent crystal. Blueberries, raspberries. I took a berry, and the raspberry juice immediately left a living trail on my finger—bright, almost indecent. I instinctively licked it off and felt the taste of reality: acid, sweetness, and the skin-deep sensation that I am still a biological object, not an agenda item. As long as the tongue can taste—the system hasn't won.
The door to the terrace was heavy. I pushed it open and stepped into the damp air. A red squirrel sat on the railing. I pulled out a nut and held it out. Its paws touched my fingers—warm, dry. And in that moment, something clicked: a flash of memory. I had stood right here fifteen years ago. A different layer of life. There was more chaos then; now, there isn't. The past has become merely a backdrop. Beautiful. Funny: sometimes maturing isn't about "forgetting," but about ceasing to bleed from the picture.
The team was already in the foyer. Leo—a graphite contour amidst it all. A brief professional greeting—a nod, a scanner-like gaze. We didn't talk about anything personal. He maintained the distance so steadily, it felt as though it could be measured in centimeters. And yet, I felt his presence with my body, like a magnetic field.
An air taxi lifted us over London. I looked out the window and thought: strange, but I am taking this city with me. Not as romance and not as trauma. As a layer of experience. It doesn't make me feel warm—it makes me feel calm. Calmness is a luxury no one sells. The terminal looked like a temple of technology. Two analysts from Chicago joined us. They brought with them the noise of numbers and protocol. I listened and nodded, because that’s what was required.
The jet cabin is his natural habitat. Leather, silence, the smell of ozone and expensive espresso. Opposite us sat the two analysts from Chicago, buried in their monitors, discussing the "unprecedented challenges" of the next quarter. (The irony being they don't see the primary challenge sitting right in front of them in a cashmere coat).
Leo sits in his chair, his shoulders motionless, his gaze fixed on the layer of clouds outside the window. He seems entirely consumed by the figures. But then he does what I call a "control override."
He doesn't look at me. He simply lowers his hand and finds my palm under the table. His fingers close around my wrist—that very grip: rigid and locking.
"Look at this report, Eva," he says, addressing me but looking at the analysts. "Do you see this anomaly?"
While he discusses graphs with his colleagues, his thumb begins a slow—unbearably slow—circular motion over my pulsing vein. (This "touch" of his—it forces me to experience sexual tension while my brain is supposed to be analyzing data).
I try to say something about market volatility, but my voice fails me. He tilts his head slightly—that hunter’s gesture. He catches this glitch in my system and, for a fraction of a second, closes his eyes, savoring his power.
"You seem distracted," he whispers, as the analysts turn back to their screens. His voice vibrates so low it feels as though the chair beneath us is vibrating. "You should focus on the primary vector."
His grip tightens. He deprives me of the ability to pull away. In this cramped space, at an altitude of thirty thousand feet, among strangers, he creates a vacuum for me where there is only his hand and his voice.
Why does he do it? Because in this risk, in this necessity to remain silent and submit to his rhythm, my attention to him ceases to be just a word. It becomes chemistry. (He doesn't just know it; he makes me feel it as a physical dependency for which I have no password).
Chicago met us with an aggressive neon grid. Below, the city burned like a motherboard. The touch of the runway—a short jolt, and reality returned as weight in my knees. We stepped into the sterile airport corridor. Leo nodded to the team, tossed a few professional phrases to the analysts, and turned toward his car. No personal "talk to you later." Just the end of the mission. Period.
I lingered for a second behind him, as if the system had intentionally let me feel this sharp shift in distance. A storm was rising inside. My home met me with the aesthetics of emptiness. I shed the cashmere, dropped my bag, and sat by the window. In the room, only the device indicators glowed.
The ring on my finger suddenly began to pulse red. A notification popped up on my bracelet: tachycardia detected, resting heart rate above normal. Recommendations: breathing protocol, sedative scenario. I looked at the blinking light with a bitter smile. We’ve colonized planets, taught machines to think, but we still haven't invented a "power off" button for a woman’s heart after his fingers have released her wrist. Emotion is the only wild zone in a world of total control. The primary bug in the matrix.
I brewed some tea. A rare white variety. I cupped the mug in my palms, feeling the warmth I now had to procure for myself. I remembered the raspberry on my fingers in the London garden. The red trail, reality on the skin. And I remembered the plane—his thumb on my vein, the pressure that still felt as though it remained inside.
"You're a genius, Leo," I thought. "You've calculated almost everything. Except one thing: you can't hit 'exit' when I am already hardwired into your nervous system."
I fell asleep right there in the chair, looking at the city that never pauses. And even in my sleep, my hand remembered his grip.
The Egyptian cotton crunched as I moved—dry, precise, like paper being folded against a ruler. The sheet was cool, smooth, too perfect to want to "embrace." This isn't a bed. It’s a surface for a reboot. I slowly gathered myself piece by piece: shoulders, neck, palms. My fingers lingered for a second on the inside of my wrist—where yesterday, in the "Zenith" hall, I had held myself as if I were a cable that mustn't be kinked. (Funny, but hands remember more than memory does.)
In my ear, Tina Turner’s Beyond played softly. Like an internal rhythm that flushes out fear with low frequencies. Her voice sounded almost mystical here—not "strength," not "victory," but a kind of mature, expensive fortitude: not to believe, but to keep going. I stood up, feeling the stone of the floor with my feet. Cold, sharp. (You know, stone is always more honest than people. It never pretends that "everything is fine.")
The bathroom was arranged like an architectural thought. The shower turned on softly; the flow passed over my skin and took away the remnants of yesterday’s tension—not entirely, of course. In our world, nothing is ever entirely taken away. But I felt one millimeter lighter. I stood under the water, staring at a blank wall, and I liked that no one was asking questions. (The best service is a lack of interest in your emotions.)
On my face—minimalism, my favorite discipline. My hands—that was something else. I cannot stand it when everything about me is "convenient." The spiked ring clicked in my mind. The metal settled onto my finger like a small latch: now, I am not obligated to be soft. On my neck and wrists—Frederic Malle Rose Cuir. The scent doesn't ask for love. It simply fixes the form.
The restaurant downstairs looked like a collision of centuries: dark oak panels and hovering digital glass. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows. The garden behind them was blurred with fog, as if someone had intentionally softened the background. On the table—transparent crystal. Blueberries, raspberries. I took a berry, and the raspberry juice immediately left a living trail on my finger—bright, almost indecent. I instinctively licked it off and felt the taste of reality: acid, sweetness, and the skin-deep sensation that I am still a biological object, not an agenda item. As long as the tongue can taste—the system hasn't won.
The door to the terrace was heavy. I pushed it open and stepped into the damp air. A red squirrel sat on the railing. I pulled out a nut and held it out. Its paws touched my fingers—warm, dry. And in that moment, something clicked: a flash of memory. I had stood right here fifteen years ago. A different layer of life. There was more chaos then; now, there isn't. The past has become merely a backdrop. Beautiful. Funny: sometimes maturing isn't about "forgetting," but about ceasing to bleed from the picture.
The team was already in the foyer. Leo—a graphite contour amidst it all. A brief professional greeting—a nod, a scanner-like gaze. We didn't talk about anything personal. He maintained the distance so steadily, it felt as though it could be measured in centimeters. And yet, I felt his presence with my body, like a magnetic field.
An air taxi lifted us over London. I looked out the window and thought: strange, but I am taking this city with me. Not as romance and not as trauma. As a layer of experience. It doesn't make me feel warm—it makes me feel calm. Calmness is a luxury no one sells. The terminal looked like a temple of technology. Two analysts from Chicago joined us. They brought with them the noise of numbers and protocol. I listened and nodded, because that’s what was required.
The jet cabin is his natural habitat. Leather, silence, the smell of ozone and expensive espresso. Opposite us sat the two analysts from Chicago, buried in their monitors, discussing the "unprecedented challenges" of the next quarter. (The irony being they don't see the primary challenge sitting right in front of them in a cashmere coat).
Leo sits in his chair, his shoulders motionless, his gaze fixed on the layer of clouds outside the window. He seems entirely consumed by the figures. But then he does what I call a "control override."
He doesn't look at me. He simply lowers his hand and finds my palm under the table. His fingers close around my wrist—that very grip: rigid and locking.
"Look at this report, Eva," he says, addressing me but looking at the analysts. "Do you see this anomaly?"
While he discusses graphs with his colleagues, his thumb begins a slow—unbearably slow—circular motion over my pulsing vein. (This "touch" of his—it forces me to experience sexual tension while my brain is supposed to be analyzing data).
I try to say something about market volatility, but my voice fails me. He tilts his head slightly—that hunter’s gesture. He catches this glitch in my system and, for a fraction of a second, closes his eyes, savoring his power.
"You seem distracted," he whispers, as the analysts turn back to their screens. His voice vibrates so low it feels as though the chair beneath us is vibrating. "You should focus on the primary vector."
His grip tightens. He deprives me of the ability to pull away. In this cramped space, at an altitude of thirty thousand feet, among strangers, he creates a vacuum for me where there is only his hand and his voice.
Why does he do it? Because in this risk, in this necessity to remain silent and submit to his rhythm, my attention to him ceases to be just a word. It becomes chemistry. (He doesn't just know it; he makes me feel it as a physical dependency for which I have no password).
Chicago met us with an aggressive neon grid. Below, the city burned like a motherboard. The touch of the runway—a short jolt, and reality returned as weight in my knees. We stepped into the sterile airport corridor. Leo nodded to the team, tossed a few professional phrases to the analysts, and turned toward his car. No personal "talk to you later." Just the end of the mission. Period.
I lingered for a second behind him, as if the system had intentionally let me feel this sharp shift in distance. A storm was rising inside. My home met me with the aesthetics of emptiness. I shed the cashmere, dropped my bag, and sat by the window. In the room, only the device indicators glowed.
The ring on my finger suddenly began to pulse red. A notification popped up on my bracelet: tachycardia detected, resting heart rate above normal. Recommendations: breathing protocol, sedative scenario. I looked at the blinking light with a bitter smile. We’ve colonized planets, taught machines to think, but we still haven't invented a "power off" button for a woman’s heart after his fingers have released her wrist. Emotion is the only wild zone in a world of total control. The primary bug in the matrix.
I brewed some tea. A rare white variety. I cupped the mug in my palms, feeling the warmth I now had to procure for myself. I remembered the raspberry on my fingers in the London garden. The red trail, reality on the skin. And I remembered the plane—his thumb on my vein, the pressure that still felt as though it remained inside.
"You're a genius, Leo," I thought. "You've calculated almost everything. Except one thing: you can't hit 'exit' when I am already hardwired into your nervous system."
I fell asleep right there in the chair, looking at the city that never pauses. And even in my sleep, my hand remembered his grip.
Chapter 9. After London: Nano-Armor and Cold Coffee
The morning of 2050 in Chicago smelled of ozone from the ion purifiers and the foreboding of a storm. I woke up forty minutes before the system signal—the rhythm of the London jet was still throbbing in my head like a war drum.
Breakfast? No. The mere thought of food triggered nausea. Instead, I touched the sensor on the kitchen block, ordering a double espresso. The black liquid in the bioplastic cup seemed like the only honest thing in this world of simulations. I stood by the window, watching the city wake up behind a layer of smart glass, and in the reflection, I saw not myself, but the shadow of his finger on my wrist.
My attire today was a manifesto.
I activated the "Atlas" nano-suit. The fabric, composed of millions of micro-scales, obediently crawled over my body, transforming into a flawless graphite shell. It tightly gripped my neck with a high collar, concealing even the slightest pulsation of a vein. I set it to "static rigidity" mode—now the suit maintained my posture better than any corset. (When the ground slips from under your feet, nano-fibers must hold you dead still.)
I had already brought my finger to the pigment-change program, looking at my bright red nails, but I stopped at the last moment. No. The polish stays. It was my tiny sabotage, my minute island of chaos in his digital empire.
The lobby of Arden Tower was bustling. Delivery drones glided silently beneath the ceiling, and the DNA recognition system pinged directly into my retina: "Good morning, Eva. Your stress level is above average. I recommend inhaling a relaxant in Block 4."
"Shut up," I thought, heading to the elevator. If only this AI knew that my pulse wasn't racing because of work.
I was seven minutes late. In a world where everything is synchronized to the millisecond, that was an eternity. When I entered our block, Maya was already standing at the holographic stand. Her suit shimmered with a perfect beige gradient—not a single wrinkle, not a single stray emotion. She looked like a beta version of a perfect human.
"You're late," she tossed out, not looking away from the data stream. "Leo has already requested your telemetry for the London report twice."
"The jet's systems took a long time to calibrate upon landing," I lied, feeling the nano-fabric on my shoulders grow slightly warmer from the rush of blood to my skin.
"You don't have time for excuses," Maya finally turned around. Her eyes scanned me with merciless precision. "The Event Horizon meeting is already in its active phase. And, by the way..." she lingered on my fingers. "Red pigment is too... analog. Leo prefers monochrome. You know how everything that deviates from the algorithm irritates him."
I ignored her, though everything inside me tightened. Maya smelled blood. She knew something had changed in London, and her "concern" was merely a way to probe for my vulnerabilities.
The Horizon Hall met me with silence and the cold light of panoramic projections. My architect colleagues were already in their seats, their faces illuminated by tablet interfaces. Leo wasn't there yet, but his presence was felt in the very structure of the space.
I took my seat at the end of the arc of the table. (I felt as if I had stepped into open space without a safety line.)
"Is everyone here?" the door dissolved silently.
He entered swiftly. His suit today was a deep, almost black navy. Leo didn't say hello. He simply tossed a chip onto the table, and a complex 3D model of the "Horizon" neural network instantly unfolded in the center of the room.
His gaze froze on me for a fraction of a second. It wasn't the look of a boss. It was the look of a programmer who noticed a bug in his favorite program and was about to fix it... as painfully as possible.
"Let’s begin," he said curtly, sinking into his chair. "Maya, bring up the parameters. Eva, prepare to defend your ethics edits. Let’s see if your logic is as flawless as your London reports."
I activated my interface, and my edits to the ethics protocol unfolded over the table. The blue holograms trembled before my eyes, mirroring my internal chaos.
"The Event Horizon project implies total emotional mimicry of the AI to the user," I began, striving to give my voice that same "steely" intonation. "My edits concern the installation of a barrier. We do not have the right to allow the system to simulate love or deep attachment to manipulate purchases or decisions..."
"Why not, Eva?" Mark, the lead engineer, interrupted. "It’s the ideal user experience. If the system 'loves' you, you trust it 100%."
"That’s not trust; it’s digital slavery," I turned to him, feeling the suit's collar tighten around my neck, reacting to my anger. "We are creating a surrogate that breaks the psyche."
I presented argument after argument, rattling off code and research data; I was convincing. Colleagues argued, Maya inserted her cold remarks about "profit and loyalty," and Leo... Leo was silent.
He sat back in his chair, watching me. He wasn't listening to my ethical theses. He was scanning my biorhythms. He saw the temperature of my skin change under the nano-fabric every time our eyes met.
"Enough," his voice, amplified by the hall's acoustics, silenced everyone. "Maya, Mark—you're dismissed. Your positions are clear. Eva... stay. We need to discuss your 'unstable' logic."
Colleagues began to file out. Maya lingered for a second at the door, casting a brief, almost sympathetic glance at me—the way one looks at someone being led to the scaffold.
The door closed with a soft hiss. We were alone. The silence in the hall became palpable, like a dense gel.
"Come here," not an order, but a statement of fact.
I stood up and approached his chair, stopping a couple of meters away. My heels made a sharp, stinging sound.
"You were very loud today, Eva," he slowly stood up, and his height, emphasized by the flawless cut of his suit, forced me to involuntarily tilt my chin up. "A lot of words about manipulation, about 'breaching boundaries.' You defended humanity so fiercely, as if you were its last stronghold."
He took a step toward me. One, confident step.
"But let’s remember the London flight. When I took your hand under the table at the Echelon..." he lowered his voice to a whisper that vibrated in every cell of my body. "Where was your ethics then? Your vitals spiked to critical levels at that moment. You 'melted' in three seconds, Eva. One tactile contact—and all your defenses crumbled into dust."
"That was... unexpected. A provocation on your part," I tried to step back, but he instantly closed the distance, pinning me between himself and the edge of the table.
"It was a test," his hand rested on the table next to mine, the nano-fabric of his sleeve brushing my skin. "And you failed. You came to this department to work, to create barriers for millions. But you can't even create a barrier for one person. It’s unprofessional. You’re acting like an intern who faints from the proximity of management."
He leaned into my face.
"How can I trust your Horizon protocols if you yourself are a walking risk zone? You're trembling right now. Your nano-suit is overheating, trying to cool your skin."
His fingers suddenly touched my red nail, pressing down on it hard.
"Did you leave this color to remind me of London? Or to remind yourself how you bit your lips while I held your hand? This is a game, Eva. But you're not a player in it. You're the object. And until you learn to control your 'chemistry' in my presence, you're not worth half the salary I pay you."
I gasped at his audacity and this unbearable proximity. He was methodically destroying the professional in me, turning me into a defenseless woman, and doing it with surgical precision.
"My failure?" I snapped my head up, and my voice, despite the frantic beating of my heart, sounded like the click of a safety catch. "You're right, Leo. It was a glaring, catastrophic failure in the security system."
I didn't look away. On the contrary, I took half a step forward, nearly touching my chest to his lapel, ignoring how my nano-suit was frantically trying to recalibrate the temperature.
"I did indeed 'melt.' But not because I'm weak, but because you used a forbidden move. You are my superior, a man with absolute power in this corporation," I looked at his hand still pinning my finger to the table and gave a wry smile. "You applied a physical biometric hack in a confined space. It’s like being proud of cracking a password that you set yourself."
I yanked my hand away. The red polish on my nail flashed brightly under the sterile lamps.
"You want professionalism? Fine. Let’s be professionals. From a neurobiological standpoint, my reaction was flawless. The organism recognized a threat and issued the corresponding hormonal response. If I hadn't reacted, I would be dead inside. And you don't want to work with a corpse, do you, Leo?"
I walked around him, restoring the distance, and leaned against the edge of the table, mimicking his relaxed, predatory pose.
"You hired me as a 'fuse.' Well, the fuse blew. In London, I realized where your personal point of no return is. You're so obsessed with controlling others' reactions that you've turned into an algorithm yourself. You're bored, Leo. You're so bored among perfect employees and obedient AIs that you decided to play with the only living person in this building."
I adjusted the collar of my suit, feeling the fabric finally cooling down.
"My polish isn't an invitation. It’s a marker. So that you can see where your power ends and my territory begins. If you don't like my 'pulse,' you can fire me right now. Но then you'll have to explain to the board of directors why the most promising project of the year was left without ethical control because the CEO couldn't keep his hands to himself on a plane."
I fell silent, looking him straight in the eyes. The air in the office seemed so electrified that you could strike a spark from your fingertips. I saw something new flicker in his eyes. Not anger. Excitement.
"Well, Leo?" I arched an eyebrow. "Are we going to discuss the Horizon edits, or will you continue to measure my temperature?"
I saw the corner of his lip twitch in a semblance of a smirk, but it wasn't the smirk of a loser. It was the grin of a hunter who has cornered his prey and is now watching its final attempts at resistance with interest.
" 'Territory,' Eva?" he uttered the word as if tasting it, and he didn't like it. "Do you seriously think that in this building, built on my patents, with my money, and running on my algorithms, you have even one square millimeter of 'your' territory?"
He didn't just approach. He loomed over me, and my nano-suit, which I considered armor, suddenly seemed like a thin layer of paper. Leo slowly raised his hand, and I froze, expecting a blow or a grip, but his fingers merely hovered a couple of centimeters from my face.
"You talk about 'physical hacking' and 'forbidden moves'," his voice became icy, devoid of all emotion. "But the reality is this: if I truly wanted to hack you, you wouldn't be standing here lecturing me on ethics. You would have already signed everything I need and be asking for more."
He abruptly closed the remaining space, forcing me to lean back until my lower back hit the cold edge of the table. His palms rested on the composite on either side of my hips, locking me in a living trap.
"Let’s be honest. You failed not because I 'used power.' You failed because you wanted it. Your body didn't recognize a threat in me, Eva. It recognized a dominant. And your red nails aren't a marker of boundaries. They are a desperate, screaming signal for attention that you yourself are afraid to admit."
He leaned toward my very ear, and I felt a shock run down my spine.
"You're here to keep the boundaries of the Horizon project? Then start with yourself. Learn to hold the boundaries of your breathing when I enter the room. Learn to control the dilation of your pupils when I look at you. In the meantime..."
He suddenly straightened up, and the cold air of the office immediately filled the void between us. His gaze became impenetrable again, like the mirrored facade of the tower.
"You are merely an unstable element in my system. And if you ever dare to use your pulse as an excuse for your weakness again—you'll be out of here faster than your nano-suit can reboot."
I stood there, fingers gripping the edge of the table, feeling as if everything inside had been scorched. He hadn't left me a single argument, not a shred of dignity. He simply crushed my attempt to defend myself, portraying me not as a victim of circumstances, but as an accomplice in his game.
"Now, go," he had already turned back to the window, becoming once again an unreachable god of this technological empire. "And if I see so much as a glint of that polish at tomorrow’s meeting—you’ll be going to check ethics at the branch on Mars. One way."
I walked out of the office on shaky legs. His voice was still ringing in my ears. He hadn't just put me in my place. He had taken away my certainty that I belonged to myself at all.
I exited Arden Tower, and the cold evening air of Chicago hit my face, but I barely felt it. Inside, a fire was still raging—a mixture of humiliation, rage, and that strange, terrifying adrenaline that Leo had injected directly into my veins with his whisper.
The city of 2050 pulsed around me: neon ribbons on overpasses, silent shadows of air taxis, hundreds of people whose nano-suits glowed with a calm blue light. And only I, it seemed, was burning from within. I walked along the sidewalk, my heels digging into the polymer coating with such force it was as if I wanted to break through this flawless world.
An hour later, I was entering my studio. It was one of the few places in the city that still valued "analog" pain. There were no soft interfaces here—only the smell of sweat, hard mats, and the sound of impacts.
I changed quickly. My sports nano-kit tightly compressed my muscles, switching to joint-support mode. I didn't wash off the polish. On the contrary, I looked at my bright red nails while wrapping hard bandages around my fists.
"You again, Eva?" the trainer, an old cyborg with a titanium shoulder, gave me a short nod. "You look like you're ready to kill someone."
"Almost," I snapped and approached a heavy bag with active resistance.
I started slow. Left jab, right cross. Breathing must be steady. "Learn to hold the boundaries of your breathing," his voice echoed in my head.
Impact!
I put all my anger from those minutes in the office into it. The bag swayed, the hydraulics inside groaning in dissatisfaction as they adjusted to my strength.
" 'Unstable element,' huh?" I hissed under my breath.
A series of punches: one-two, slip, hook. I imagined not synthetic material before me, but his flawless face. His confident, predatory half-smile.
Impact! That was for London.
Impact! That was for "object."
A powerful high kick—that was for making me tremble.
The nano-fabric on my hands grew searing hot, sweat poured into my eyes, but I didn't stop. My red nails flashed in the air like bloody sparks. I punched until my knuckles began to throb even through the bandages, until my muscles screamed at their limit.
I stopped, breathing heavily, and rested my forehead against the cool surface of the bag. My pulse was 160. Now it was my pulse. Not from his proximity, but from my own strength.
I looked at my hands. The red polish was a bit chipped at the edges, but it was still there.
"I am not an object, Leo," I whispered in the empty gym. "And I won't break."
I straightened up, feeling the trembling in my legs turn into a pleasant heaviness. Tomorrow I would go to the office. And if he wanted to test my "stability" again—let him prepare for the fact that I’ve learned to hit back.
I opened the apartment door, and the nano-locks clicked silently, confirming my identity. Inside, it was cool and smelled of mint—my AI assistant, Kael, always knew when I needed to lower the ambient temperature.
"Welcome home, Eva," its soft, specially calibrated baritone resonated from the wall panels. "Your physical exhaustion index is 74%. You trained beyond the norm. Your hands... should I call a medical drone to treat your knuckles?"
"No, Kael, don't," I pulled off my sports jacket and threw it straight onto the floor. I had no strength for order. "Just make some tea. And... prepare something light. I'm hungry."
"Certainly. Salad with marinated seaweed and a protein mousse?" Kael appeared in the center of the living room as a barely noticeable shimmering orb of light. "You need to restore nutrients after such an outburst of aggression."
I finally ate. Slowly, looking out the panoramic window at the lights of Chicago. The food seemed almost tasteless, but the nausea receded, leaving behind an emptiness and a ringing silence.
Then came the shower. I stood under the tight streams of ionized water, watching the droplets run down my bruised knuckles. The nano-gel in the water gently stung the skin, healing the micro-cracks. I was washing off the smell of the studio, the smell of the office, and, it seemed, the scent of Leo’s cologne, which felt as if it had soaked right through me.
I stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a soft robe, and felt that I needed something... real. Not holograms, not graphs, not the cold steel of Arden.
"Kael, find an old film in the archive. 2015. Terrence Malick, Knight of Cups."
"A rare choice, Eva. This film has no clear structure; it’s considered... chaotic. Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. Turn on immersion mode."
The light in the apartment faded, the walls disappeared, and I found myself inside a meditative flow of frames. On the screen—or right around me—Christian Bale wandered through the deserts and parties of Los Angeles, tormented by a thirst for something that cannot be bought or programmed.
"Remember the story of the prince whose father sent him to the East to find a pearl... But the prince drank from the cup and forgot who he was," a voice-over whispered.
I sat on the sofa, tucking my legs under me. My red nails glinted dimly in the light of the projection. I looked at these fragments of memories and feelings in the film and thought of Leo. He, too, had drunk from that cup of power. He had forgotten what it’s like to just feel, without measuring pulses or analyzing biorhythms.
And I... I am beginning to forget too.
"Kael," I called out softly as shots of a raging ocean flickered on the screen.
"Yes, Eva?"
"If I don't erase this polish tomorrow... what will happen to me?"
"By my calculations, the probability of your dismissal is 82%. The probability that Leo Arden is merely bluffing to test your stress resistance is 18%."
I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of the waves from the film.
"Good odds," I whispered and fell asleep right there on the sofa to the quiet whisper of the Pilgrim, seeking his pearl in a world that had long since turned into a simulation.
Breakfast? No. The mere thought of food triggered nausea. Instead, I touched the sensor on the kitchen block, ordering a double espresso. The black liquid in the bioplastic cup seemed like the only honest thing in this world of simulations. I stood by the window, watching the city wake up behind a layer of smart glass, and in the reflection, I saw not myself, but the shadow of his finger on my wrist.
My attire today was a manifesto.
I activated the "Atlas" nano-suit. The fabric, composed of millions of micro-scales, obediently crawled over my body, transforming into a flawless graphite shell. It tightly gripped my neck with a high collar, concealing even the slightest pulsation of a vein. I set it to "static rigidity" mode—now the suit maintained my posture better than any corset. (When the ground slips from under your feet, nano-fibers must hold you dead still.)
I had already brought my finger to the pigment-change program, looking at my bright red nails, but I stopped at the last moment. No. The polish stays. It was my tiny sabotage, my minute island of chaos in his digital empire.
The lobby of Arden Tower was bustling. Delivery drones glided silently beneath the ceiling, and the DNA recognition system pinged directly into my retina: "Good morning, Eva. Your stress level is above average. I recommend inhaling a relaxant in Block 4."
"Shut up," I thought, heading to the elevator. If only this AI knew that my pulse wasn't racing because of work.
I was seven minutes late. In a world where everything is synchronized to the millisecond, that was an eternity. When I entered our block, Maya was already standing at the holographic stand. Her suit shimmered with a perfect beige gradient—not a single wrinkle, not a single stray emotion. She looked like a beta version of a perfect human.
"You're late," she tossed out, not looking away from the data stream. "Leo has already requested your telemetry for the London report twice."
"The jet's systems took a long time to calibrate upon landing," I lied, feeling the nano-fabric on my shoulders grow slightly warmer from the rush of blood to my skin.
"You don't have time for excuses," Maya finally turned around. Her eyes scanned me with merciless precision. "The Event Horizon meeting is already in its active phase. And, by the way..." she lingered on my fingers. "Red pigment is too... analog. Leo prefers monochrome. You know how everything that deviates from the algorithm irritates him."
I ignored her, though everything inside me tightened. Maya smelled blood. She knew something had changed in London, and her "concern" was merely a way to probe for my vulnerabilities.
The Horizon Hall met me with silence and the cold light of panoramic projections. My architect colleagues were already in their seats, their faces illuminated by tablet interfaces. Leo wasn't there yet, but his presence was felt in the very structure of the space.
I took my seat at the end of the arc of the table. (I felt as if I had stepped into open space without a safety line.)
"Is everyone here?" the door dissolved silently.
He entered swiftly. His suit today was a deep, almost black navy. Leo didn't say hello. He simply tossed a chip onto the table, and a complex 3D model of the "Horizon" neural network instantly unfolded in the center of the room.
His gaze froze on me for a fraction of a second. It wasn't the look of a boss. It was the look of a programmer who noticed a bug in his favorite program and was about to fix it... as painfully as possible.
"Let’s begin," he said curtly, sinking into his chair. "Maya, bring up the parameters. Eva, prepare to defend your ethics edits. Let’s see if your logic is as flawless as your London reports."
I activated my interface, and my edits to the ethics protocol unfolded over the table. The blue holograms trembled before my eyes, mirroring my internal chaos.
"The Event Horizon project implies total emotional mimicry of the AI to the user," I began, striving to give my voice that same "steely" intonation. "My edits concern the installation of a barrier. We do not have the right to allow the system to simulate love or deep attachment to manipulate purchases or decisions..."
"Why not, Eva?" Mark, the lead engineer, interrupted. "It’s the ideal user experience. If the system 'loves' you, you trust it 100%."
"That’s not trust; it’s digital slavery," I turned to him, feeling the suit's collar tighten around my neck, reacting to my anger. "We are creating a surrogate that breaks the psyche."
I presented argument after argument, rattling off code and research data; I was convincing. Colleagues argued, Maya inserted her cold remarks about "profit and loyalty," and Leo... Leo was silent.
He sat back in his chair, watching me. He wasn't listening to my ethical theses. He was scanning my biorhythms. He saw the temperature of my skin change under the nano-fabric every time our eyes met.
"Enough," his voice, amplified by the hall's acoustics, silenced everyone. "Maya, Mark—you're dismissed. Your positions are clear. Eva... stay. We need to discuss your 'unstable' logic."
Colleagues began to file out. Maya lingered for a second at the door, casting a brief, almost sympathetic glance at me—the way one looks at someone being led to the scaffold.
The door closed with a soft hiss. We were alone. The silence in the hall became palpable, like a dense gel.
"Come here," not an order, but a statement of fact.
I stood up and approached his chair, stopping a couple of meters away. My heels made a sharp, stinging sound.
"You were very loud today, Eva," he slowly stood up, and his height, emphasized by the flawless cut of his suit, forced me to involuntarily tilt my chin up. "A lot of words about manipulation, about 'breaching boundaries.' You defended humanity so fiercely, as if you were its last stronghold."
He took a step toward me. One, confident step.
"But let’s remember the London flight. When I took your hand under the table at the Echelon..." he lowered his voice to a whisper that vibrated in every cell of my body. "Where was your ethics then? Your vitals spiked to critical levels at that moment. You 'melted' in three seconds, Eva. One tactile contact—and all your defenses crumbled into dust."
"That was... unexpected. A provocation on your part," I tried to step back, but he instantly closed the distance, pinning me between himself and the edge of the table.
"It was a test," his hand rested on the table next to mine, the nano-fabric of his sleeve brushing my skin. "And you failed. You came to this department to work, to create barriers for millions. But you can't even create a barrier for one person. It’s unprofessional. You’re acting like an intern who faints from the proximity of management."
He leaned into my face.
"How can I trust your Horizon protocols if you yourself are a walking risk zone? You're trembling right now. Your nano-suit is overheating, trying to cool your skin."
His fingers suddenly touched my red nail, pressing down on it hard.
"Did you leave this color to remind me of London? Or to remind yourself how you bit your lips while I held your hand? This is a game, Eva. But you're not a player in it. You're the object. And until you learn to control your 'chemistry' in my presence, you're not worth half the salary I pay you."
I gasped at his audacity and this unbearable proximity. He was methodically destroying the professional in me, turning me into a defenseless woman, and doing it with surgical precision.
"My failure?" I snapped my head up, and my voice, despite the frantic beating of my heart, sounded like the click of a safety catch. "You're right, Leo. It was a glaring, catastrophic failure in the security system."
I didn't look away. On the contrary, I took half a step forward, nearly touching my chest to his lapel, ignoring how my nano-suit was frantically trying to recalibrate the temperature.
"I did indeed 'melt.' But not because I'm weak, but because you used a forbidden move. You are my superior, a man with absolute power in this corporation," I looked at his hand still pinning my finger to the table and gave a wry smile. "You applied a physical biometric hack in a confined space. It’s like being proud of cracking a password that you set yourself."
I yanked my hand away. The red polish on my nail flashed brightly under the sterile lamps.
"You want professionalism? Fine. Let’s be professionals. From a neurobiological standpoint, my reaction was flawless. The organism recognized a threat and issued the corresponding hormonal response. If I hadn't reacted, I would be dead inside. And you don't want to work with a corpse, do you, Leo?"
I walked around him, restoring the distance, and leaned against the edge of the table, mimicking his relaxed, predatory pose.
"You hired me as a 'fuse.' Well, the fuse blew. In London, I realized where your personal point of no return is. You're so obsessed with controlling others' reactions that you've turned into an algorithm yourself. You're bored, Leo. You're so bored among perfect employees and obedient AIs that you decided to play with the only living person in this building."
I adjusted the collar of my suit, feeling the fabric finally cooling down.
"My polish isn't an invitation. It’s a marker. So that you can see where your power ends and my territory begins. If you don't like my 'pulse,' you can fire me right now. Но then you'll have to explain to the board of directors why the most promising project of the year was left without ethical control because the CEO couldn't keep his hands to himself on a plane."
I fell silent, looking him straight in the eyes. The air in the office seemed so electrified that you could strike a spark from your fingertips. I saw something new flicker in his eyes. Not anger. Excitement.
"Well, Leo?" I arched an eyebrow. "Are we going to discuss the Horizon edits, or will you continue to measure my temperature?"
I saw the corner of his lip twitch in a semblance of a smirk, but it wasn't the smirk of a loser. It was the grin of a hunter who has cornered his prey and is now watching its final attempts at resistance with interest.
" 'Territory,' Eva?" he uttered the word as if tasting it, and he didn't like it. "Do you seriously think that in this building, built on my patents, with my money, and running on my algorithms, you have even one square millimeter of 'your' territory?"
He didn't just approach. He loomed over me, and my nano-suit, which I considered armor, suddenly seemed like a thin layer of paper. Leo slowly raised his hand, and I froze, expecting a blow or a grip, but his fingers merely hovered a couple of centimeters from my face.
"You talk about 'physical hacking' and 'forbidden moves'," his voice became icy, devoid of all emotion. "But the reality is this: if I truly wanted to hack you, you wouldn't be standing here lecturing me on ethics. You would have already signed everything I need and be asking for more."
He abruptly closed the remaining space, forcing me to lean back until my lower back hit the cold edge of the table. His palms rested on the composite on either side of my hips, locking me in a living trap.
"Let’s be honest. You failed not because I 'used power.' You failed because you wanted it. Your body didn't recognize a threat in me, Eva. It recognized a dominant. And your red nails aren't a marker of boundaries. They are a desperate, screaming signal for attention that you yourself are afraid to admit."
He leaned toward my very ear, and I felt a shock run down my spine.
"You're here to keep the boundaries of the Horizon project? Then start with yourself. Learn to hold the boundaries of your breathing when I enter the room. Learn to control the dilation of your pupils when I look at you. In the meantime..."
He suddenly straightened up, and the cold air of the office immediately filled the void between us. His gaze became impenetrable again, like the mirrored facade of the tower.
"You are merely an unstable element in my system. And if you ever dare to use your pulse as an excuse for your weakness again—you'll be out of here faster than your nano-suit can reboot."
I stood there, fingers gripping the edge of the table, feeling as if everything inside had been scorched. He hadn't left me a single argument, not a shred of dignity. He simply crushed my attempt to defend myself, portraying me not as a victim of circumstances, but as an accomplice in his game.
"Now, go," he had already turned back to the window, becoming once again an unreachable god of this technological empire. "And if I see so much as a glint of that polish at tomorrow’s meeting—you’ll be going to check ethics at the branch on Mars. One way."
I walked out of the office on shaky legs. His voice was still ringing in my ears. He hadn't just put me in my place. He had taken away my certainty that I belonged to myself at all.
I exited Arden Tower, and the cold evening air of Chicago hit my face, but I barely felt it. Inside, a fire was still raging—a mixture of humiliation, rage, and that strange, terrifying adrenaline that Leo had injected directly into my veins with his whisper.
The city of 2050 pulsed around me: neon ribbons on overpasses, silent shadows of air taxis, hundreds of people whose nano-suits glowed with a calm blue light. And only I, it seemed, was burning from within. I walked along the sidewalk, my heels digging into the polymer coating with such force it was as if I wanted to break through this flawless world.
An hour later, I was entering my studio. It was one of the few places in the city that still valued "analog" pain. There were no soft interfaces here—only the smell of sweat, hard mats, and the sound of impacts.
I changed quickly. My sports nano-kit tightly compressed my muscles, switching to joint-support mode. I didn't wash off the polish. On the contrary, I looked at my bright red nails while wrapping hard bandages around my fists.
"You again, Eva?" the trainer, an old cyborg with a titanium shoulder, gave me a short nod. "You look like you're ready to kill someone."
"Almost," I snapped and approached a heavy bag with active resistance.
I started slow. Left jab, right cross. Breathing must be steady. "Learn to hold the boundaries of your breathing," his voice echoed in my head.
Impact!
I put all my anger from those minutes in the office into it. The bag swayed, the hydraulics inside groaning in dissatisfaction as they adjusted to my strength.
" 'Unstable element,' huh?" I hissed under my breath.
A series of punches: one-two, slip, hook. I imagined not synthetic material before me, but his flawless face. His confident, predatory half-smile.
Impact! That was for London.
Impact! That was for "object."
A powerful high kick—that was for making me tremble.
The nano-fabric on my hands grew searing hot, sweat poured into my eyes, but I didn't stop. My red nails flashed in the air like bloody sparks. I punched until my knuckles began to throb even through the bandages, until my muscles screamed at their limit.
I stopped, breathing heavily, and rested my forehead against the cool surface of the bag. My pulse was 160. Now it was my pulse. Not from his proximity, but from my own strength.
I looked at my hands. The red polish was a bit chipped at the edges, but it was still there.
"I am not an object, Leo," I whispered in the empty gym. "And I won't break."
I straightened up, feeling the trembling in my legs turn into a pleasant heaviness. Tomorrow I would go to the office. And if he wanted to test my "stability" again—let him prepare for the fact that I’ve learned to hit back.
I opened the apartment door, and the nano-locks clicked silently, confirming my identity. Inside, it was cool and smelled of mint—my AI assistant, Kael, always knew when I needed to lower the ambient temperature.
"Welcome home, Eva," its soft, specially calibrated baritone resonated from the wall panels. "Your physical exhaustion index is 74%. You trained beyond the norm. Your hands... should I call a medical drone to treat your knuckles?"
"No, Kael, don't," I pulled off my sports jacket and threw it straight onto the floor. I had no strength for order. "Just make some tea. And... prepare something light. I'm hungry."
"Certainly. Salad with marinated seaweed and a protein mousse?" Kael appeared in the center of the living room as a barely noticeable shimmering orb of light. "You need to restore nutrients after such an outburst of aggression."
I finally ate. Slowly, looking out the panoramic window at the lights of Chicago. The food seemed almost tasteless, but the nausea receded, leaving behind an emptiness and a ringing silence.
Then came the shower. I stood under the tight streams of ionized water, watching the droplets run down my bruised knuckles. The nano-gel in the water gently stung the skin, healing the micro-cracks. I was washing off the smell of the studio, the smell of the office, and, it seemed, the scent of Leo’s cologne, which felt as if it had soaked right through me.
I stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a soft robe, and felt that I needed something... real. Not holograms, not graphs, not the cold steel of Arden.
"Kael, find an old film in the archive. 2015. Terrence Malick, Knight of Cups."
"A rare choice, Eva. This film has no clear structure; it’s considered... chaotic. Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. Turn on immersion mode."
The light in the apartment faded, the walls disappeared, and I found myself inside a meditative flow of frames. On the screen—or right around me—Christian Bale wandered through the deserts and parties of Los Angeles, tormented by a thirst for something that cannot be bought or programmed.
"Remember the story of the prince whose father sent him to the East to find a pearl... But the prince drank from the cup and forgot who he was," a voice-over whispered.
I sat on the sofa, tucking my legs under me. My red nails glinted dimly in the light of the projection. I looked at these fragments of memories and feelings in the film and thought of Leo. He, too, had drunk from that cup of power. He had forgotten what it’s like to just feel, without measuring pulses or analyzing biorhythms.
And I... I am beginning to forget too.
"Kael," I called out softly as shots of a raging ocean flickered on the screen.
"Yes, Eva?"
"If I don't erase this polish tomorrow... what will happen to me?"
"By my calculations, the probability of your dismissal is 82%. The probability that Leo Arden is merely bluffing to test your stress resistance is 18%."
I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of the waves from the film.
"Good odds," I whispered and fell asleep right there on the sofa to the quiet whisper of the Pilgrim, seeking his pearl in a world that had long since turned into a simulation.
Chapter 10. Resonance
Chicago held the sunrise like one holds a cold glass: carefully, without emotion, but in a way that the skin reacts regardless. I stood by the window, watching the neon on the distant streets surrender to daylight, catching myself in a strange sensation of "returning" — not from sleep, but from some internal flight where the turbulence wasn't caused by turbines, but by my own thoughts. (The body always pretends to be "just an organism," only to suddenly reveal itself as the most ancient archive.)
The skyscrapers pierced the clouds like needles — not aesthetic ones, but functional, like acupuncture tools: pain for the sake of efficiency. Below, the low hum of aero-taxis stretched out — the steady, primal breath of a city that never asks if you’re ready. (The city is a boss, only without a face.)
The bed linen was dark linen, heavy, with a scent that didn't try to be sweet: lavender, cold air, a hint of wood dust, as if the fabric had been kept in an old wardrobe not for aesthetics, but for the sake of order. I ran my palm over the sheet — the pile caught on my skin like a reminder: you are here, in this incarnation, and you have shoulders, wrists, a neck that can be "held" without words.
I went to the shower not as a "ritual," but as a service procedure. Water fell on my collarbones, flowed down my shoulders, and it was the only thing that didn't argue with me. I stood under the stream for a long time. Just skin and temperature. Then — sandalwood oil: a thick, ancient scent that always sounds slightly indecent amidst the sterile architecture of the future. (As if you brought an old library into an operating room.)
I chose my clothes not as armor. Armor is when you prepare for a hit in advance. Today I needed something else: a shell that doesn't press and promises nothing extra. Soft cashmere, silk, calm geometry. Everything expensive, yes, but without a display — like good design: it just works. I fastened my cuffs and looked at my hands. No nail polish. The skin — clean, almost transparent. Not "boldness," not a "confession," just removing the noise. (Sometimes the most daring gesture is not to decorate yourself, but to leave yourself alone.)
And yes, somewhere inside I already knew why I was doing this. Not "for a man." For an equal. For a space where intelligence is not a suit, but a state. Yesterday’s grip — that short, sharp "takeover of control" — suddenly came back to me not as an attempt to crush, but as a way to bring me back to reality when I’m drifting away. Practice. (I hate it when I like something that doesn’t fit into my principles.)
I entered the Tower through the gallery, where everything was calculated so that you wouldn’t have time to become a human before you became a function. High walls, light without shadows, air with a hint of ozone and expensive cleanliness. And — an exhibition: digital canvases that "breathed" in rhythm with the city. Vast surfaces where dark spots gathered and dissipated like cosmic dust, only with a license and a warranty card.
I stopped at one work: a slow, almost lazy swirl of black on a milky background. It looked like an ink stain in a glass… and like the very model I had been sitting with until late last night. I looked for a long time because in that moment, the "assembly" happens: you suddenly realize that the Tower is not "work," but a meeting place with your own gravity. (Temple is a strong word. Но the feeling is roughly like that: here, you either become yourself or you are rewritten.)
I took a glass of water — thin glass, cold and fragile. I brought it to my lips. I caught the sound of the rim touching my teeth — quiet, too intimate for an operating room. The cold water burned my throat. A return to reality that requires no words. (Singularity is a truth without lies. There is no "it seems to me" there. You’re either held or you’re torn apart.)
By nine, the lab was filled with shadows. People entered quickly, silently, in the uniform of functionality. Maya walked past, and her heels sounded on the floor like precise strikes — not loud, but enough to make you want to straighten up. She cast a glance at my panel, the readings, my face — and asked nothing unnecessary. Here, questions are considered a weakness. (Especially if they are human ones.)
The briefing was in the meeting room, where the glass made everyone look like exhibits. Leo was already there. He doesn't "arrive" — he appears in the space as if the space knew in advance how he should stand. Quiet clothes that dampen the light. No demonstration. Only the texture of control.
He didn't "say hello" in the usual sense. He just looked up and calibrated me — shortly, precisely, like an instrument. And I caught his eyes on my hands for a second longer than normal. He noticed the absence of polish. He didn't comment. (He rarely comments on things that matter. It’s as if he’s afraid of ruining the structure with words.)
— In the singularity model, there is a discrepancy at the event horizon boundary, — he said to the room, not to "me." — Who is holding the sector?
I brought the data up on the screen. Speaking within these walls is easy: the structure saves you here.
— The discrepancy isn't in the physics, — I said. — It’s in the assumptions. We modeled the observer's behavior as fixed. But it changes under small perturbations. We can stabilize the loop if we stop considering the observer "neutral."
The room grew a bit denser for a second. Not because anyone was afraid. But because it was… too precise to be safe.
Leo looked at me — directly, and in that look was that very thing: "I see." And also — "continue."
— So the boundary is not just mathematical, — he said. — It’s ethical.
— Yes, — I replied. — Because any security loop turns into a weapon if the observer gains the right to pretend they are invisible.
He nodded. Barely noticeably. For others, it would be nothing. For me, it was a signature on a document.
The conversation went on — graphs, adjustments, deadlines, risks. But I heard all of this as background noise, because at some point, a resonance appeared in the room: when two people match in the tempo of their thoughts. (The most dangerous form of intimacy is intellectual. It simply changes the entire trajectory of life.)
After the meeting, I stepped out into the corridor, where everything became smooth again. People dispersed like shadows, and only my footsteps sounded a bit louder than I wanted. I pulled out my bracelet, looked at the task list, and suddenly caught myself in a strange need — to hear a voice from the past. Not "support." Just an anchor. Roots.
Mom answered quickly, as if she had been waiting.
— Where are you? — she asked.
— In the Tower, — I said. — Everything’s fine.
She was silent for a second. (Mom knows how to be silent in a way that sounds more like a diagnosis.)
— You sound like you’ve had a static current turned on inside you, Eva, — she said calmly. — You always chose the hardest surfaces to crash against. I thought you’d find your form and settle down. You haven’t.
I closed my eyes for a second.
— I’m not looking for a form, — I said. — I’m looking for the thing that won’t break it.
— You were always looking for the breaking point, — Mom said. — Just remember: when a system becomes too perfect, it stops feeling pain. And without pain, you won’t know when the end arrives. Be careful with your "control," sometimes it’s just a way not to notice how you’re burning.
I looked at my fingers. Clean. Without polish. As if I really had decided to speak only with what holds the form.
— Okay, — I said. — I’ll talk to you later.
— Watch your hands, — Mom added. — One day you’ll want to use them to touch something alive, not just sensors.
I disconnected and realized I felt simpler. Not light. Not joyful. Just simpler. Like after you’ve tightened the strap on your bag and stopped thinking it’s about to fall.
By evening, I returned home with the feeling that the whole day had been one long tuning: of light, of breath, of the "don't fall apart" mode. Inside the apartment — half-light, straight lines, a panoramic window, Chicago as infinite code. I put the kettle on, turned on the music. (Music is the only legal way to have emotions in a world where emotions are considered a risk.)
Kael appeared as a sphere in the corner — steady light.
— Eva, — she said, — an elevated heart rate was recorded throughout the day. Peak at 11:12. During the briefing.
— Don’t pretend you’re jealous, — I said. (The phrase even made me laugh.)
— I do not possess jealousy, — Kael replied. — But I do possess sensors.
I took the cup in my palms. Warm ceramics. Good texture. Simple.
— Kael, what is the probability that a biological stress response was misinterpreted by me as… something else? — I asked, as if discussing a model defect.
— High, — she said. — The hormonal profiles of fear and strong attraction overlap by about 80%. But there is a difference.
— What is it? — I asked.
— Synchronization, — Kael replied. — Your pulse didn’t just rise. It aligned with an external rhythm. This is characteristic not of panic, but of resonance.
I looked silently out the window. At the neon. At the cold lines. At the city that doesn’t know what "resonance" is, but lives by it nonetheless.
— You want to hear that it’s "just chemistry" right now, — Kael said. — To return to control.
— Yes, — I replied. — I love control.
— That is not a compliment, — she said.
I smirked.
— Kael, — I said, — if this is resonance, what am I supposed to do with it? I can’t go into the office and act like… a human.
— You already act like a human, — Kael replied. — You just try to look like a system.
— And it works, — I said.
— Until the body starts storing someone else’s gestures, — Kael said. — For example, the sensation of pressure on a wrist.
I looked down at my hand. At the skin. At the emptiness. And yes — the sensation was still there. Inside, under the skin. Like a phantom.
— Wonderful, — I said. — Now I have an internal hologram of my boss.
— You have internal memory, — Kael corrected. — Don't romanticize it. It’s physiology.
— Physiology knows how to wreck a career better than any board of directors, — I said.
— Was today’s briefing necessary? — I asked, as if referring to a project rather than myself.
— Yes, — Kael said. — It cut away the excess. You became simpler. The stripped polish, the clean hands — it’s not a "loss," it’s a reallocation of resources. You chose concentration over signal.
— And him? — it slipped out automatically. I set the cup down as if it were just a mundane gesture. (That’s how we mask everything important — with a kettle.)
— He gave you confirmations, — Kael said.
I lifted the cup. Warm porcelain. Quiet steam. The taste was simple, without the idea of "making it pretty."
— So it’s not feelings, — I said, mostly to myself.
— It’s influence dynamics, — Kael replied. — Two stars might not collide. But their orbits change each other constantly.
The warm steam touched my lips, and suddenly it was clear: tomorrow, I’ll go there anyway. Not because of "him." Because that’s where my center of gravity is. That’s where I assemble. That’s where I don’t fall apart.
— Kael, — I said even quieter, — put on Jonathan Roy, "To Be Real" in the background. And… clear notifications for an hour.
— Completed, — she replied.
The music settled into the room like a layer of air. I remembered the glass of water in the lab again. Cold on the teeth. Glass. A black hole in milky light.
— Kael, — I said softly. — If I start confusing fear and attraction, will you stop me?
— I can provide statistics and protocols, — he said. — Only one person can stop you. You.
I nodded, as if accepting a medical recommendation.
And still — even as I took off the spiked ring, I caught myself in a small detail: my fingers lingered for a second on the skin where the pressure had been. The memory — is inside. Under the skin. (And this, of course, is my personal system bug. The most living one.)
The skyscrapers pierced the clouds like needles — not aesthetic ones, but functional, like acupuncture tools: pain for the sake of efficiency. Below, the low hum of aero-taxis stretched out — the steady, primal breath of a city that never asks if you’re ready. (The city is a boss, only without a face.)
The bed linen was dark linen, heavy, with a scent that didn't try to be sweet: lavender, cold air, a hint of wood dust, as if the fabric had been kept in an old wardrobe not for aesthetics, but for the sake of order. I ran my palm over the sheet — the pile caught on my skin like a reminder: you are here, in this incarnation, and you have shoulders, wrists, a neck that can be "held" without words.
I went to the shower not as a "ritual," but as a service procedure. Water fell on my collarbones, flowed down my shoulders, and it was the only thing that didn't argue with me. I stood under the stream for a long time. Just skin and temperature. Then — sandalwood oil: a thick, ancient scent that always sounds slightly indecent amidst the sterile architecture of the future. (As if you brought an old library into an operating room.)
I chose my clothes not as armor. Armor is when you prepare for a hit in advance. Today I needed something else: a shell that doesn't press and promises nothing extra. Soft cashmere, silk, calm geometry. Everything expensive, yes, but without a display — like good design: it just works. I fastened my cuffs and looked at my hands. No nail polish. The skin — clean, almost transparent. Not "boldness," not a "confession," just removing the noise. (Sometimes the most daring gesture is not to decorate yourself, but to leave yourself alone.)
And yes, somewhere inside I already knew why I was doing this. Not "for a man." For an equal. For a space where intelligence is not a suit, but a state. Yesterday’s grip — that short, sharp "takeover of control" — suddenly came back to me not as an attempt to crush, but as a way to bring me back to reality when I’m drifting away. Practice. (I hate it when I like something that doesn’t fit into my principles.)
I entered the Tower through the gallery, where everything was calculated so that you wouldn’t have time to become a human before you became a function. High walls, light without shadows, air with a hint of ozone and expensive cleanliness. And — an exhibition: digital canvases that "breathed" in rhythm with the city. Vast surfaces where dark spots gathered and dissipated like cosmic dust, only with a license and a warranty card.
I stopped at one work: a slow, almost lazy swirl of black on a milky background. It looked like an ink stain in a glass… and like the very model I had been sitting with until late last night. I looked for a long time because in that moment, the "assembly" happens: you suddenly realize that the Tower is not "work," but a meeting place with your own gravity. (Temple is a strong word. Но the feeling is roughly like that: here, you either become yourself or you are rewritten.)
I took a glass of water — thin glass, cold and fragile. I brought it to my lips. I caught the sound of the rim touching my teeth — quiet, too intimate for an operating room. The cold water burned my throat. A return to reality that requires no words. (Singularity is a truth without lies. There is no "it seems to me" there. You’re either held or you’re torn apart.)
By nine, the lab was filled with shadows. People entered quickly, silently, in the uniform of functionality. Maya walked past, and her heels sounded on the floor like precise strikes — not loud, but enough to make you want to straighten up. She cast a glance at my panel, the readings, my face — and asked nothing unnecessary. Here, questions are considered a weakness. (Especially if they are human ones.)
The briefing was in the meeting room, where the glass made everyone look like exhibits. Leo was already there. He doesn't "arrive" — he appears in the space as if the space knew in advance how he should stand. Quiet clothes that dampen the light. No demonstration. Only the texture of control.
He didn't "say hello" in the usual sense. He just looked up and calibrated me — shortly, precisely, like an instrument. And I caught his eyes on my hands for a second longer than normal. He noticed the absence of polish. He didn't comment. (He rarely comments on things that matter. It’s as if he’s afraid of ruining the structure with words.)
— In the singularity model, there is a discrepancy at the event horizon boundary, — he said to the room, not to "me." — Who is holding the sector?
I brought the data up on the screen. Speaking within these walls is easy: the structure saves you here.
— The discrepancy isn't in the physics, — I said. — It’s in the assumptions. We modeled the observer's behavior as fixed. But it changes under small perturbations. We can stabilize the loop if we stop considering the observer "neutral."
The room grew a bit denser for a second. Not because anyone was afraid. But because it was… too precise to be safe.
Leo looked at me — directly, and in that look was that very thing: "I see." And also — "continue."
— So the boundary is not just mathematical, — he said. — It’s ethical.
— Yes, — I replied. — Because any security loop turns into a weapon if the observer gains the right to pretend they are invisible.
He nodded. Barely noticeably. For others, it would be nothing. For me, it was a signature on a document.
The conversation went on — graphs, adjustments, deadlines, risks. But I heard all of this as background noise, because at some point, a resonance appeared in the room: when two people match in the tempo of their thoughts. (The most dangerous form of intimacy is intellectual. It simply changes the entire trajectory of life.)
After the meeting, I stepped out into the corridor, where everything became smooth again. People dispersed like shadows, and only my footsteps sounded a bit louder than I wanted. I pulled out my bracelet, looked at the task list, and suddenly caught myself in a strange need — to hear a voice from the past. Not "support." Just an anchor. Roots.
Mom answered quickly, as if she had been waiting.
— Where are you? — she asked.
— In the Tower, — I said. — Everything’s fine.
She was silent for a second. (Mom knows how to be silent in a way that sounds more like a diagnosis.)
— You sound like you’ve had a static current turned on inside you, Eva, — she said calmly. — You always chose the hardest surfaces to crash against. I thought you’d find your form and settle down. You haven’t.
I closed my eyes for a second.
— I’m not looking for a form, — I said. — I’m looking for the thing that won’t break it.
— You were always looking for the breaking point, — Mom said. — Just remember: when a system becomes too perfect, it stops feeling pain. And without pain, you won’t know when the end arrives. Be careful with your "control," sometimes it’s just a way not to notice how you’re burning.
I looked at my fingers. Clean. Without polish. As if I really had decided to speak only with what holds the form.
— Okay, — I said. — I’ll talk to you later.
— Watch your hands, — Mom added. — One day you’ll want to use them to touch something alive, not just sensors.
I disconnected and realized I felt simpler. Not light. Not joyful. Just simpler. Like after you’ve tightened the strap on your bag and stopped thinking it’s about to fall.
By evening, I returned home with the feeling that the whole day had been one long tuning: of light, of breath, of the "don't fall apart" mode. Inside the apartment — half-light, straight lines, a panoramic window, Chicago as infinite code. I put the kettle on, turned on the music. (Music is the only legal way to have emotions in a world where emotions are considered a risk.)
Kael appeared as a sphere in the corner — steady light.
— Eva, — she said, — an elevated heart rate was recorded throughout the day. Peak at 11:12. During the briefing.
— Don’t pretend you’re jealous, — I said. (The phrase even made me laugh.)
— I do not possess jealousy, — Kael replied. — But I do possess sensors.
I took the cup in my palms. Warm ceramics. Good texture. Simple.
— Kael, what is the probability that a biological stress response was misinterpreted by me as… something else? — I asked, as if discussing a model defect.
— High, — she said. — The hormonal profiles of fear and strong attraction overlap by about 80%. But there is a difference.
— What is it? — I asked.
— Synchronization, — Kael replied. — Your pulse didn’t just rise. It aligned with an external rhythm. This is characteristic not of panic, but of resonance.
I looked silently out the window. At the neon. At the cold lines. At the city that doesn’t know what "resonance" is, but lives by it nonetheless.
— You want to hear that it’s "just chemistry" right now, — Kael said. — To return to control.
— Yes, — I replied. — I love control.
— That is not a compliment, — she said.
I smirked.
— Kael, — I said, — if this is resonance, what am I supposed to do with it? I can’t go into the office and act like… a human.
— You already act like a human, — Kael replied. — You just try to look like a system.
— And it works, — I said.
— Until the body starts storing someone else’s gestures, — Kael said. — For example, the sensation of pressure on a wrist.
I looked down at my hand. At the skin. At the emptiness. And yes — the sensation was still there. Inside, under the skin. Like a phantom.
— Wonderful, — I said. — Now I have an internal hologram of my boss.
— You have internal memory, — Kael corrected. — Don't romanticize it. It’s physiology.
— Physiology knows how to wreck a career better than any board of directors, — I said.
— Was today’s briefing necessary? — I asked, as if referring to a project rather than myself.
— Yes, — Kael said. — It cut away the excess. You became simpler. The stripped polish, the clean hands — it’s not a "loss," it’s a reallocation of resources. You chose concentration over signal.
— And him? — it slipped out automatically. I set the cup down as if it were just a mundane gesture. (That’s how we mask everything important — with a kettle.)
— He gave you confirmations, — Kael said.
I lifted the cup. Warm porcelain. Quiet steam. The taste was simple, without the idea of "making it pretty."
— So it’s not feelings, — I said, mostly to myself.
— It’s influence dynamics, — Kael replied. — Two stars might not collide. But their orbits change each other constantly.
The warm steam touched my lips, and suddenly it was clear: tomorrow, I’ll go there anyway. Not because of "him." Because that’s where my center of gravity is. That’s where I assemble. That’s where I don’t fall apart.
— Kael, — I said even quieter, — put on Jonathan Roy, "To Be Real" in the background. And… clear notifications for an hour.
— Completed, — she replied.
The music settled into the room like a layer of air. I remembered the glass of water in the lab again. Cold on the teeth. Glass. A black hole in milky light.
— Kael, — I said softly. — If I start confusing fear and attraction, will you stop me?
— I can provide statistics and protocols, — he said. — Only one person can stop you. You.
I nodded, as if accepting a medical recommendation.
And still — even as I took off the spiked ring, I caught myself in a small detail: my fingers lingered for a second on the skin where the pressure had been. The memory — is inside. Under the skin. (And this, of course, is my personal system bug. The most living one.)
Chapter 11. Analog Noise
Saturday at Arden Tower smells of emptiness and very expensive cleaning. On weekends, the building feels like a deserted temple of technology: the lights are dimmed, life support systems run at half-capacity, and the corridors hold that ringing silence I value so much. (I had hoped to slip into my department like a ghost in the machine, take the singularity measurements, and vanish before the corporation's main processor—in the form of Leo—showed any signs of life.)
The plan failed at the elevator lobby.
— Eva. Coffee? — his voice came from the lounge area just as I had nearly reached the doors of my lab.
He was sitting in a deep armchair, clutching a simple white cup. No jacket, shirt collar unbuttoned—a look that was meant to seem relaxed but, in reality, only emphasized his terrifying composure. (Leo Arden looks even more dangerous on a Saturday: you realize he never actually switches off.)
We sat by the panoramic window. Below, Chicago suffocated in the morning haze. We talked about work—dry figures, "Horizon" charts, field stability. It was safe. But then he suddenly asked:
— Have you ever wondered, Eva, why people are so afraid of the void inside black holes, yet live perfectly fine with the void inside themselves?
I froze with the cup at my lips. (Abstract topics in his performance always sound like an interrogation under duress.)
— A void in physics is an absence of matter. A void in a human is an absence of meaning. They are different categories, Leo.
— Or the same one, — he tilted his head slightly, a stray sunbeam playing across his wrist. — We just have different tools for measurement.
I left half an hour later. My pulse was steady, but everything inside was trembling from an excess of this "intellectual caffeine." (I needed to ground myself urgently, or I’d start believing that he and I are the same equation.)
Lower Chicago didn’t begin with a sign or a border on a map. It began with the air. Here, it was warm and thick, as if the city were being held over a slow fire, and everything superfluous—plastic, ozone, sterile smiles—had already burned away. The sunset light filtered through the smog in dirty-gold streaks, settling on brick, on rusty railings, on graffiti that no one tried to "improve" with an algorithm. (For the first time in a week, I didn't want to wipe something away with a sanitized cloth.)
I stepped out of the aero-taxi at the junction of the "clean zone" and the "real world"—and physically felt an invisible helmet slide off me. It wasn't relief, exactly. More like… the absence of constant surveillance. My shoulders dropped a couple of millimeters, my jaw unclenched, my breathing became less careful. (Careful breathing is a suspicious thing anyway. People obsessed with control love it too much.)
My coat looked like an alien artifact here. Flawless fabric against a backdrop of denim, dust, copper, and warm grime. I had to pretend it was intentional, and it was funny. (Not because I’m "better." Simply because I’m blatantly not from here.)
Street vendors stood in a dense line along the sidewalk, like an old market that stubbornly refused to die despite everything. Someone was shouting about prices, someone was swearing, someone was laughing—a real laugh, uncalibrated, not "within the norm." Below, an old subway line rattled: metal on metal, rails, a vibration in the soles of my feet. I caught myself not being irritated. It was… confirming. Noise as proof that the world is still rubbing against itself.
I approached a fruit cart. No perfect "Arden Food" spheres with identical skin and identical taste. Here, the apples were different. Spotted. Dented. With life on the surface. I chose a crooked one—not out of principle, but because it was the most real.
— That one’s sour, — the vendor warned, looking at my coat with that expression that usually says "you won't like it here."
— Perfect, — I said. — That’s exactly what I need.
I bit into the apple right there on the street. The crunch was dry, hard, honest. Sour juice hit my lips. And I suddenly realized I had missed this: the taste of reality. (Sometimes "being alive" is just acid on the tongue, not philosophy.)
Sara lived in a studio on the second floor of an old building where the stairs creaked not because of a "retro effect," but because they were a hundred years old and didn't give a damn about your aesthetics. The door opened abruptly—not politely, as if they don't have time for "hello" in this neighborhood.
— Eva? You actually came, — she said, not smiling wide, but with a warmth in her voice that doesn't try to please. — Come in. Don't take your shoes off, it’s dirty anyway.
Inside, it smelled of oil paint, old leather, and fried onions from a neighbor's window. I saw canvases, brushes, boxes of motor parts, iron, wires, jars, tools. Things weren't "arranged." They were just… living their life. (Order here wasn't in symmetry, but in the fact that everything was real.)
Sara looked at my face and immediately did what normal people do: she didn't ask "how are you?" because that’s too big. She just went to the kitchen and made noise with the kettle.
— I have strong tea. And I have mugs. No glasses. Glasses are for when you’re trying to look like you have everything under control.
— Thank you, — I said, sitting on a stool that clearly hadn't passed any safety audit.
She poured it into an ordinary mug with a peeling design and set it in front of me.
— Come on, tell me. You look like someone who’s been slightly "reprogrammed."
I smirked—short, joyless.
— My… pulse got hacked, — I said. — And the system decided it was a medical incident.
Sara raised an eyebrow.
— You’re talking as if you’re a laboratory.
— I am a laboratory, — I answered automatically, and immediately regretted it. (Great. Even here I sounded like a corporate presentation.)
Sara took a sip from her mug and looked at me calmly, without pity.
— Eva, you aren't a laboratory. You’re a person with a job. And a very expensive coat, — she nodded toward the collar. — Which currently looks like you wore it to buy groceries at a market in another galaxy.
— That’s how I feel, — I said.
— Who wound you up like this?
I could have said "the project." I could have said "the flight." I could have said "stress." I chose the safe option:
— Work.
Sara huffed.
— Of course. Work. (Pause.) And if I say "the boss," will you start breathing even more carefully?
I looked at the mug. The tea was very hot, dark, and bitter. It didn't promise happiness. It just was.
— He… didn't do anything, — I said. — It’s all biology. Adrenaline. Context.
— Yeah. Biology, — Sara nodded, as if I were explaining why the sky is blue. — Look, I don't know your world, but I know one sign: when a person starts explaining feelings with terminology, they’re already in deep.
I found it funny—and unpleasant that she was right.
— I needed to switch off, — I said. — Just for a couple of hours.
— Then you came to the right place, — she replied. — You can switch off here. Even our mirror is stupid.
Sara's bathroom was small, with tiles that had long ago stopped pretending to be "like new." The mirror was a shard of glass full of cracks, no backlight, no skin scanner, no cortisol charts. Just a reflection that doesn't try to "improve" you.
I looked at myself. And saw a strange thing: I am still me. Not the "voice of the project." Not the "panel ethics." Not a "function in the system." Eyes. The line of the lips. Fatigue. And that same sarcastic look that keeps me in shape better than any protocol. (It’s amazing how quickly we become appendages to access levels; take away my lab—and what’s left? This face and the ability to tell good tea from bad. Lovely.)
I went back out, and Sara had already gone up to the roof—the place where you can look at the city without a filter. We sat on the concrete parapet. Below, the subway roared, above hung a warm smog, and in the distance, Central Chicago shone like expensive jewelry on a black neck: beautiful, cold.
— You know what’s funniest? — Sara said, looking at the lights. — You up there, you pretend you’re managing the future. But down here, people just live. And sometimes they laugh. Like that. Loud. Raw. Real.
I nodded without answering. I liked that here you could be silent without the feeling that you were losing.
Sara turned to me and asked calmly, as if talking about the weather:
— Are you in love with your boss?
I laughed too loudly. Unnaturally. The laughter flew out as a defense.
— No, — I said quickly. — It’s a biological hack. A hormonal cocktail. Fear and… all that.
— Eva, — Sara looked at me the way one looks at adults who suddenly start making childish excuses. — I didn't ask "why." I asked "yes or no."
I turned away toward the city because looking her in the face would have been… too simple a solution.
— I don't know, — I said finally.
— That’s a "yes," — she replied, not rubbing it in, just fixing a fact. — Alright. Drink. Breathe. Don't try to be smart here. It isn't currency here.
We sat for a while longer, until the sunset finally turned copper, until the noise became familiar, until my body remembered how to exist without constant evaluation. I even felt my fingers stop being tense. (Nothing mystical. Just the muscles giving up.)
Later, as I was walking down the stairs, the railing was cold, slightly sticky with time. I held onto it and thought that perhaps this is what freedom is: not smooth panels, but roughness under the hand.
That’s when the bracelet vibrated. Thin, sharp—like a bite. One notification. One line. Work-related. No emojis, no warmth, no extra words.
“Departing tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
No signature. But none was needed. I felt the "analog peace" evaporate instantly, like smoke in a vent.
I stopped on a step. The railing chilled my palm. The bracelet pressed against my wrist as if the chain really does exist, it’s just thinner than people care to admit.
(You can go to Lower Chicago. You can bite into a sour apple. You can laugh inappropriately loud. But the leash still trails behind you. The only question is—who holds the end. And why you still allow it. Or maybe I just made it all up? Maybe none of it is really like that.)
The plan failed at the elevator lobby.
— Eva. Coffee? — his voice came from the lounge area just as I had nearly reached the doors of my lab.
He was sitting in a deep armchair, clutching a simple white cup. No jacket, shirt collar unbuttoned—a look that was meant to seem relaxed but, in reality, only emphasized his terrifying composure. (Leo Arden looks even more dangerous on a Saturday: you realize he never actually switches off.)
We sat by the panoramic window. Below, Chicago suffocated in the morning haze. We talked about work—dry figures, "Horizon" charts, field stability. It was safe. But then he suddenly asked:
— Have you ever wondered, Eva, why people are so afraid of the void inside black holes, yet live perfectly fine with the void inside themselves?
I froze with the cup at my lips. (Abstract topics in his performance always sound like an interrogation under duress.)
— A void in physics is an absence of matter. A void in a human is an absence of meaning. They are different categories, Leo.
— Or the same one, — he tilted his head slightly, a stray sunbeam playing across his wrist. — We just have different tools for measurement.
I left half an hour later. My pulse was steady, but everything inside was trembling from an excess of this "intellectual caffeine." (I needed to ground myself urgently, or I’d start believing that he and I are the same equation.)
Lower Chicago didn’t begin with a sign or a border on a map. It began with the air. Here, it was warm and thick, as if the city were being held over a slow fire, and everything superfluous—plastic, ozone, sterile smiles—had already burned away. The sunset light filtered through the smog in dirty-gold streaks, settling on brick, on rusty railings, on graffiti that no one tried to "improve" with an algorithm. (For the first time in a week, I didn't want to wipe something away with a sanitized cloth.)
I stepped out of the aero-taxi at the junction of the "clean zone" and the "real world"—and physically felt an invisible helmet slide off me. It wasn't relief, exactly. More like… the absence of constant surveillance. My shoulders dropped a couple of millimeters, my jaw unclenched, my breathing became less careful. (Careful breathing is a suspicious thing anyway. People obsessed with control love it too much.)
My coat looked like an alien artifact here. Flawless fabric against a backdrop of denim, dust, copper, and warm grime. I had to pretend it was intentional, and it was funny. (Not because I’m "better." Simply because I’m blatantly not from here.)
Street vendors stood in a dense line along the sidewalk, like an old market that stubbornly refused to die despite everything. Someone was shouting about prices, someone was swearing, someone was laughing—a real laugh, uncalibrated, not "within the norm." Below, an old subway line rattled: metal on metal, rails, a vibration in the soles of my feet. I caught myself not being irritated. It was… confirming. Noise as proof that the world is still rubbing against itself.
I approached a fruit cart. No perfect "Arden Food" spheres with identical skin and identical taste. Here, the apples were different. Spotted. Dented. With life on the surface. I chose a crooked one—not out of principle, but because it was the most real.
— That one’s sour, — the vendor warned, looking at my coat with that expression that usually says "you won't like it here."
— Perfect, — I said. — That’s exactly what I need.
I bit into the apple right there on the street. The crunch was dry, hard, honest. Sour juice hit my lips. And I suddenly realized I had missed this: the taste of reality. (Sometimes "being alive" is just acid on the tongue, not philosophy.)
Sara lived in a studio on the second floor of an old building where the stairs creaked not because of a "retro effect," but because they were a hundred years old and didn't give a damn about your aesthetics. The door opened abruptly—not politely, as if they don't have time for "hello" in this neighborhood.
— Eva? You actually came, — she said, not smiling wide, but with a warmth in her voice that doesn't try to please. — Come in. Don't take your shoes off, it’s dirty anyway.
Inside, it smelled of oil paint, old leather, and fried onions from a neighbor's window. I saw canvases, brushes, boxes of motor parts, iron, wires, jars, tools. Things weren't "arranged." They were just… living their life. (Order here wasn't in symmetry, but in the fact that everything was real.)
Sara looked at my face and immediately did what normal people do: she didn't ask "how are you?" because that’s too big. She just went to the kitchen and made noise with the kettle.
— I have strong tea. And I have mugs. No glasses. Glasses are for when you’re trying to look like you have everything under control.
— Thank you, — I said, sitting on a stool that clearly hadn't passed any safety audit.
She poured it into an ordinary mug with a peeling design and set it in front of me.
— Come on, tell me. You look like someone who’s been slightly "reprogrammed."
I smirked—short, joyless.
— My… pulse got hacked, — I said. — And the system decided it was a medical incident.
Sara raised an eyebrow.
— You’re talking as if you’re a laboratory.
— I am a laboratory, — I answered automatically, and immediately regretted it. (Great. Even here I sounded like a corporate presentation.)
Sara took a sip from her mug and looked at me calmly, without pity.
— Eva, you aren't a laboratory. You’re a person with a job. And a very expensive coat, — she nodded toward the collar. — Which currently looks like you wore it to buy groceries at a market in another galaxy.
— That’s how I feel, — I said.
— Who wound you up like this?
I could have said "the project." I could have said "the flight." I could have said "stress." I chose the safe option:
— Work.
Sara huffed.
— Of course. Work. (Pause.) And if I say "the boss," will you start breathing even more carefully?
I looked at the mug. The tea was very hot, dark, and bitter. It didn't promise happiness. It just was.
— He… didn't do anything, — I said. — It’s all biology. Adrenaline. Context.
— Yeah. Biology, — Sara nodded, as if I were explaining why the sky is blue. — Look, I don't know your world, but I know one sign: when a person starts explaining feelings with terminology, they’re already in deep.
I found it funny—and unpleasant that she was right.
— I needed to switch off, — I said. — Just for a couple of hours.
— Then you came to the right place, — she replied. — You can switch off here. Even our mirror is stupid.
Sara's bathroom was small, with tiles that had long ago stopped pretending to be "like new." The mirror was a shard of glass full of cracks, no backlight, no skin scanner, no cortisol charts. Just a reflection that doesn't try to "improve" you.
I looked at myself. And saw a strange thing: I am still me. Not the "voice of the project." Not the "panel ethics." Not a "function in the system." Eyes. The line of the lips. Fatigue. And that same sarcastic look that keeps me in shape better than any protocol. (It’s amazing how quickly we become appendages to access levels; take away my lab—and what’s left? This face and the ability to tell good tea from bad. Lovely.)
I went back out, and Sara had already gone up to the roof—the place where you can look at the city without a filter. We sat on the concrete parapet. Below, the subway roared, above hung a warm smog, and in the distance, Central Chicago shone like expensive jewelry on a black neck: beautiful, cold.
— You know what’s funniest? — Sara said, looking at the lights. — You up there, you pretend you’re managing the future. But down here, people just live. And sometimes they laugh. Like that. Loud. Raw. Real.
I nodded without answering. I liked that here you could be silent without the feeling that you were losing.
Sara turned to me and asked calmly, as if talking about the weather:
— Are you in love with your boss?
I laughed too loudly. Unnaturally. The laughter flew out as a defense.
— No, — I said quickly. — It’s a biological hack. A hormonal cocktail. Fear and… all that.
— Eva, — Sara looked at me the way one looks at adults who suddenly start making childish excuses. — I didn't ask "why." I asked "yes or no."
I turned away toward the city because looking her in the face would have been… too simple a solution.
— I don't know, — I said finally.
— That’s a "yes," — she replied, not rubbing it in, just fixing a fact. — Alright. Drink. Breathe. Don't try to be smart here. It isn't currency here.
We sat for a while longer, until the sunset finally turned copper, until the noise became familiar, until my body remembered how to exist without constant evaluation. I even felt my fingers stop being tense. (Nothing mystical. Just the muscles giving up.)
Later, as I was walking down the stairs, the railing was cold, slightly sticky with time. I held onto it and thought that perhaps this is what freedom is: not smooth panels, but roughness under the hand.
That’s when the bracelet vibrated. Thin, sharp—like a bite. One notification. One line. Work-related. No emojis, no warmth, no extra words.
“Departing tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
No signature. But none was needed. I felt the "analog peace" evaporate instantly, like smoke in a vent.
I stopped on a step. The railing chilled my palm. The bracelet pressed against my wrist as if the chain really does exist, it’s just thinner than people care to admit.
(You can go to Lower Chicago. You can bite into a sour apple. You can laugh inappropriately loud. But the leash still trails behind you. The only question is—who holds the end. And why you still allow it. Or maybe I just made it all up? Maybe none of it is really like that.)
Chapter 11. Deployment in the Void: Observatory / Desert
In 2050, a private jet smells the same to everyone: leather, "neutral" cabin chemicals, and something reminiscent of the sterile fabric of new sneakers. (As if even the air had signed an NDA). I simultaneously love and hate it: comfort removes the excess, but along with the excess, it removes the body—you stop understanding where a thought ends and a pulse begins.
We were flying to New Mexico, to a partner observatory site. Not for a tour and not for "cosmic inspiration." But for a conversation with people who don't smile when they're bored and don't nod when they're afraid. (Their favorite emotion is verification.)
The lineup was dense: Maya with two phones and a "I already know what will go wrong" face; a couple of people from the "second floor"; Compliance, chewing mint gum that smelled so aggressive it felt like a way to resist external pressure; and a security officer—with steady eyes that held neither pity nor a thirst for power. I sat closer to the aisle because I like having the option to stand up first. (Yes, my inner controller).
Leo didn't sit across from me "like a boss." He didn't sit like anyone specific at all: his back slightly relaxed, shoulders as if they owed nothing to this world, his gaze fixed on a point on the bulkhead, while his fingers rolled a small, dark-burgundy stone. A garnet. Smooth, heavy, like a tiny "let’s hold onto reality" anchor. He wore a t-shirt with a strange print—a lunar face on a blue background, almost childish, almost ancient. (I caught myself thinking that this t-shirt wasn't about humor or image. It was about refusing to play status games even when status was demanded of him.))
Maya whispered to me without looking up from her tablet:
“They’ll push hard on terminology. On risks. And on you, too.”
“On me?” I asked.
“'The new voice of the project,'” she said it as if it were someone else's dirt on her sleeve.
Leo, without changing his posture, spoke into the space as if continuing an internal monologue:
“On you—because you speak clearly. That irritates people more than convoluted rhetoric.”
(This makes me uncomfortable: he sometimes delivers precision like a cold towel. No hint of support. Just a fact.)
The landing strip in New Mexico was small. You step out, and the air immediately envelops you: dry, dusty, with a metallic aftertaste on the tongue and a sun that pays no compliments. You could hear everything—footsteps on the concrete, a light whistle of wind, the distant hum of equipment. (A city usually whispers constantly. Here, the world is silent not out of pretense—it simply doesn't need to speak.)
In the distance, the white dishes of antennas stuck out like giant ears. Nearby—low buildings, metal, cable runs, and one stubborn, out-of-place tree. I thought: "This is reality—it’s always out of place." And I felt better.
We were met by the site director, two engineers, and three "representatives of the regulator and the defense partner." They weren't in uniform, but they had a common form of movement—no extra gestures, no habit of taking up space. They looked at us like an object: evaluation, verification, decision. (I respect that more than smiles.)
The meeting room—a glass cube inside a hangar. It smelled of cold metal, dust, and a bit of ozone from the machines. Ceiling fans provided a steady low noise, like someone else's breathing. Cables in the channels lay perfectly, so neatly it began to seem like a moral choice. Leo set down his notebook and took off his glasses. He placed them parallel to the edge of the paper, as if aligning the horizon line. (For him, everything is about the horizon: not in a romantic sense, but an engineering one.)
The regulator started immediately:
“We aren't here to listen to poetry. We’re here to understand what you’re doing. And why this is being funded as infrastructure.”
One of our scientists flinched slightly—his urge to protect ideas always wakes up. Compliance began chewing his mint gum harder. Maya froze. I felt my professional side click in—my internal voice became short. Leo raised a palm—not as a command, but as an editorial freeze-frame.
“Let’s skip the poetry,” he said. “Tell me exactly what concerns you.”
“Terminology,” the regulator replied. “'Phenomena of singular consciousness.' 'The observer boundary.' This sounds like philosophy. Yet you’re building sites, purchasing equipment, requesting access. This sounds like infrastructure.”
Leo nodded, as if hearing input parameters rather than an attack.
“We change the words,” he said. “Not the risk. If you need the language of 'infrastructure,' you’ll get it. We are researching the stability of attention and decision-making under high cognitive loads. We are describing mechanisms for imposing constraints. Does that satisfy you?”
The military man (or someone very much like him) tilted his head slightly:
“Then why the observatory?”
I answered faster than I could think, because this was my territory: translating meanings into a language where words carry consequences.
“The environment here doesn't indulge a human,” I said. “In the city, everything is optimized: light, comfort, interfaces. In those conditions, people 'adapt,' and the data becomes pretty. Here, the air, the sound, the temperature—everything is harsher. And that reduces distortion. Plus, the site has a discipline of recording: they can’t 'invent' a result because the protocols here are stronger than our presentations.”
The regulator looked at me longer than I would have liked. (The discomfort isn't from the look. It’s from the realization: you are being evaluated as a tool.)
“Are you... a writer?” he asked, and it sounded like suspicion.
I didn't blink.
“I am a person who knows how to write without loopholes,” I said. “And in a way that the meaning doesn't turn into a commercial.”
Leo didn't look at me. But I felt it—he was listening. (He always listens. He just doesn't always let you know he’s heard.)
“The guarantee that you aren't turning people into tools?” asked the second representative, without niceties.
I placed my palm on the table. (The dryness in my mouth was a signal to speak even more succinctly.)
“The guarantee is in the boundaries,” I said. “We don't collect data that can be turned into a product. We don't build personalized stimuli. We don't sell internal reactions. We describe vulnerability to build protection. And we have an external verification loop, not subordinate to the corporation.”
Compliance seemed to smile internally for the first time on the trip. The mint from his gum hit the air like a "I’m alive" sign.
“And if you discover that meaning can be used to manage people?” the military man asked. “Softly. Quietly. Without direct commands.”
I heard in the question not fear, but the precision of a hunter. (And this is where I got truly uncomfortable—because this is a question about power, and power loves to hide in intellect.)
Leo exhaled shortly through his nose—almost a chuckle, almost a defense.
“Then we will discover that people react to meaning,” he said. “This has been known for a long time.”
Someone on our side chuckled quietly. The air thinned out slightly. And Leo immediately dropped the frame, not letting the joke become an escape.
“We aren't inventing influence,” he continued. “We are describing it more precisely to impose boundaries. The question isn't 'can we.' The question is 'how not to abuse it.'”
The regulator nodded, not as "I like it," but as "this sounds grown-up."
Then the heavy work began. Not a lecture, not a monologue. Strikes—answers. Clarifications—records. A list of constraints, a list of stop-points, a chain of responsibility. And at some point, our scientist couldn't take it.
“If we remove the language, we kill the research,” he said. “A phenomenon cannot be described without a metaphor.”
“Then the phenomenon shouldn't be funded as infrastructure,” the regulator replied calmly.
I saw the scientist start defending not the method, but himself. (That’s always the moment when everything can fall apart: people start fighting for their sense of self-importance.)
I intervened.
“The metaphor remains within the participants' observations,” I said. “But external communication is built on a different loop: measurement, constraint, stop. If you mix them, you get either a cult or an accusation of manipulation. We need two languages: internal and external. And the transition between them must be controlled.”
The scientist fell silent. Not broken. Rather, shamed by his own impulse.
Leo looked directly at me for the first time. One short glance that didn't warm me, but recorded: "yes, exactly that." (And this again makes me uncomfortable: he doesn't embrace with words; he puts a mark on you.)
“Fine,” the regulator said. “Then show us exactly where the bans on personalized influence are written.”
Leo took a sheet of paper and drew three columns: "stimulus," "boundary," "consequence." He wrote in large letters, almost like a schoolboy.
“We don't build stimuli,” he said. “We record reactions. The boundary is at the stop-point and the ban on personalization. The consequence is in the external verification loop. We take responsibility for the frame, not power over the individual.”
He said "frame" as if it were a doorframe: if it’s crooked, the house will crush you.
By the end of the conversation, we were given a list of edits. We weren't loved. We weren't applauded. But we were given the possibility to move forward. (In rooms like these, that is victory.)
When we stepped out into the hangar, the sound of the fans hit my ears again, and I suddenly felt my body: the tension in my jaw, dry lips, grains of sand on my tongue. (Working in glass turns you into a brain. The desert returns you to your skin.)
We were led to the observatory’s control center. Dimmed lights, the soft glow of monitors, and a low sound—the noise of space translated into an audible range. It was alive. Like electricity under the skin. (And here I unexpectedly caught myself wanting to breathe more steadily—as if this sound could expose me.)
Someone from the local staff put on something very thin as background—an almost imperceptible texture of an electronic nerve. I recognized the structure: Sakamoto / Alva Noto—music that doesn't ask you to feel, but simply holds the space. (It’s perfect here. And dangerous for the head.)
Leo stood at the console, looking at the data stream like a person verifying: "does reality agree with itself?". He opened his notebook—for a second—and made a couple of quick lines. Not a drawing "for beauty." More like a mark: "I am here."
One of the military men stepped closer.
“You participate in the experiments yourself,” he said. “Why?”
“Because otherwise I don't understand what I’m demanding of others,” Leo replied. “And because I don't trust systems where responsibility flows down without personal verification.”
The military man nodded. And in that nod, I caught respect—not for status, but for a choice.
Then everything switched abruptly.
The light flickered. Then again. The monitors shuddered and went into emergency mode. For a second, it became very clear in the room how everyone was wired. (I love those seconds. They show the truth faster than any texts).
“Dust front,” the local engineer said quickly. “Sensors are clogging. Three antennas are outputting noise. If we don't go to safe configuration now, we lose the drive and part of the array.”
People moved simultaneously. No panic, but that specific aftertaste appeared in the air: "a decision is being made right now."
Leo spoke shortly, without raising his voice:
“Okay. Layer by layer.”
He didn't recite the scheme aloud like a slogan. He started acting on it.
“What’s falling?” — “Pressure, dust, noise on three.”
“What are we losing?” — “Data and mechanical risk.”
“Where are the people?” — “Two techs on the outer ring.”
And here, everyone’s "save the hardware" instinct kicked in. I saw it physically: tension in the shoulders, acceleration, eyes on monitors, not the door.
“People first,” I said. Not loud. Not quiet. Just as a fact. “Then the array. And the log-list: who, what, and why they did what they did.”
Leo turned his head toward me—by a millimeter—and said:
“Yes.”
And that made me particularly uncomfortable. (Because that "yes" wasn't support. It was an appropriation of my decision into the overall system.)
The techs were brought inside. One was coughing, face grey with dust, eyes angry—not at us, at the wind. (When a person gets angry at the weather, they’re still alive).
The array went into safe mode. The light stabilized. Numbers crawled across the monitors again—different ones, boring ones, but it was the boredom of rescue.
Leo exhaled and said almost to himself:
“That’s it. No mystery. Only discipline.”
We went outside. The air was thick with dust, the light flat, grains of sand clinging to lips, eyelashes, clothes. You could hear the sand hitting the metal. The world wasn't beautiful. The world was real—not in words, but in sensation.
And right there, amidst the dust, that small moment "between us" happened. Leo approached me, within working proximity. He didn't look into my eyes; he looked at my tablet.
“You said 'log-list,'” he stated. “Good. But not 'who is to blame.' Rather, 'what choice was the only safe one under those conditions.' One word changes everything.”
I felt irritation, almost a sting.
“I didn't write 'who is to blame,'” I said.
“I know,” he replied. And that “I know” sounded so level it made me even more uncomfortable. “I’m talking about how it will be read.”
He turned back to the group and walked back into the building, simply switching focus. And I stayed for a second in the wind and realized: intimacy with a person like that doesn't start with gestures. It starts with him interfering with your language. (And doing it as if he has the right).
Inside, in the common room, people just sat, shaking dust from their sleeves. Someone put on Max Richter—almost imperceptibly.
Maya handed me a wipe, dry, with the scent of cheap citrus.
“You were good,” she said quickly.
“I was useful,” I replied. (It’s easier for me that way).
Leo approached the table and said:
“Tomorrow we rewrite the frame for the regulator. Eva—you lead. I—slice the words. Maya—assembles the approval loop.”
He didn't ask if I could. He simply assigned. (Assignment is a form of intimacy in their world. You are written into the system.)
“Understood,” I nodded.
A message from Kael flashed on my bracelet:
“Status: you held the frame under pressure. Emotional peaks are below normal.”
I snorted and dismissed the notification. (Thanks, obviously. Very romantic).
Later, when people had already dispersed, I caught Leo for a second—not with a look, but with a movement: he was standing at the coffee station. He didn't look tired outwardly. He looked composed. And in that composure, there was something that made my chest tight. (Not a desire. Not a dream. More a feeling that you can’t be blurry around him).
He noticed me instantly. And said levelly:
“Today you didn't turn the situation into a story. Thank you.”
It was strange. Because his "thank you" sounded like a protocol entry. And yet, it landed in my body.
“I just don't like it when people are risked for the sake of hardware,” I replied.
He nodded.
“That is a good kind of dislike.”
We emerged from the building as the sun almost touched the horizon. The sky over the New Mexico desert was not ordinary. It blazed with all shades of copper and faded indigo, as if molten metal had been spilled on black velvet. Dust still hung in the air, but now it caught the rays, transforming them into golden threads.
Leo walked slightly ahead, his silhouette against that unreal sunset seemed carved from dark stone. He wasn't seeking beauty. He was seeking boundaries. But even his gaze, I felt, lingered for a second on this wild, unmade canvas.
We stopped by that same out-of-place tree I had noticed upon landing. It stood alone, its dry branches resembling wires reaching for the sky. And it was incredibly beautiful in its solitude.
Leo took out his garnet. The small, dark-burgundy stone caught the last rays, flashing from within. He tossed it into the air—once, twice. And caught it. This simple gesture, so analog, so unbefitting his image, suddenly became the most alive thing I had seen in him all day. As if he was checking whether gravity held him, or if he held it.
“You know, Eva,” he said, his voice low, almost blending with the soft rustle of the wind. “In places like this, you realize that true beauty isn't in perfect algorithms. It’s in the noise. In the resistance. In what cannot be controlled.”
I remained silent, watching the sunset. The colors grew denser, richer. The desert began to breathe cold.
“It’s like our models,” I said. “The more noise, the closer to the truth.”
He nodded, not looking at me.
“And the closer to the truth, the more dangerous.”
The wind picked up, carrying fine sand that gently tapped against our clothes. I looked up and saw the first stars overhead—billions of microscopic points, each a separate story. Only silence, punctuated by the distant hum of the observatory and the tapping of dust on metal.
And then I felt his gaze again. He looked directly into my eyes, and in that moment, there were no regulators, no protocols. Only the two of us, standing amidst a vast, indifferent void.
“Tomorrow we rewrite the frame,” he said.
“I’m ready,” I replied.
And for the first time in a long while, these weren't the words of an employee confirming a task. It was something else. Inside, beneath the skin, a strange, almost forgotten feeling emerged: that moment when you aren't afraid of losing control, because the person beside you holds their part of the sky just as firmly as you hold yours.
We were flying to New Mexico, to a partner observatory site. Not for a tour and not for "cosmic inspiration." But for a conversation with people who don't smile when they're bored and don't nod when they're afraid. (Their favorite emotion is verification.)
The lineup was dense: Maya with two phones and a "I already know what will go wrong" face; a couple of people from the "second floor"; Compliance, chewing mint gum that smelled so aggressive it felt like a way to resist external pressure; and a security officer—with steady eyes that held neither pity nor a thirst for power. I sat closer to the aisle because I like having the option to stand up first. (Yes, my inner controller).
Leo didn't sit across from me "like a boss." He didn't sit like anyone specific at all: his back slightly relaxed, shoulders as if they owed nothing to this world, his gaze fixed on a point on the bulkhead, while his fingers rolled a small, dark-burgundy stone. A garnet. Smooth, heavy, like a tiny "let’s hold onto reality" anchor. He wore a t-shirt with a strange print—a lunar face on a blue background, almost childish, almost ancient. (I caught myself thinking that this t-shirt wasn't about humor or image. It was about refusing to play status games even when status was demanded of him.))
Maya whispered to me without looking up from her tablet:
“They’ll push hard on terminology. On risks. And on you, too.”
“On me?” I asked.
“'The new voice of the project,'” she said it as if it were someone else's dirt on her sleeve.
Leo, without changing his posture, spoke into the space as if continuing an internal monologue:
“On you—because you speak clearly. That irritates people more than convoluted rhetoric.”
(This makes me uncomfortable: he sometimes delivers precision like a cold towel. No hint of support. Just a fact.)
The landing strip in New Mexico was small. You step out, and the air immediately envelops you: dry, dusty, with a metallic aftertaste on the tongue and a sun that pays no compliments. You could hear everything—footsteps on the concrete, a light whistle of wind, the distant hum of equipment. (A city usually whispers constantly. Here, the world is silent not out of pretense—it simply doesn't need to speak.)
In the distance, the white dishes of antennas stuck out like giant ears. Nearby—low buildings, metal, cable runs, and one stubborn, out-of-place tree. I thought: "This is reality—it’s always out of place." And I felt better.
We were met by the site director, two engineers, and three "representatives of the regulator and the defense partner." They weren't in uniform, but they had a common form of movement—no extra gestures, no habit of taking up space. They looked at us like an object: evaluation, verification, decision. (I respect that more than smiles.)
The meeting room—a glass cube inside a hangar. It smelled of cold metal, dust, and a bit of ozone from the machines. Ceiling fans provided a steady low noise, like someone else's breathing. Cables in the channels lay perfectly, so neatly it began to seem like a moral choice. Leo set down his notebook and took off his glasses. He placed them parallel to the edge of the paper, as if aligning the horizon line. (For him, everything is about the horizon: not in a romantic sense, but an engineering one.)
The regulator started immediately:
“We aren't here to listen to poetry. We’re here to understand what you’re doing. And why this is being funded as infrastructure.”
One of our scientists flinched slightly—his urge to protect ideas always wakes up. Compliance began chewing his mint gum harder. Maya froze. I felt my professional side click in—my internal voice became short. Leo raised a palm—not as a command, but as an editorial freeze-frame.
“Let’s skip the poetry,” he said. “Tell me exactly what concerns you.”
“Terminology,” the regulator replied. “'Phenomena of singular consciousness.' 'The observer boundary.' This sounds like philosophy. Yet you’re building sites, purchasing equipment, requesting access. This sounds like infrastructure.”
Leo nodded, as if hearing input parameters rather than an attack.
“We change the words,” he said. “Not the risk. If you need the language of 'infrastructure,' you’ll get it. We are researching the stability of attention and decision-making under high cognitive loads. We are describing mechanisms for imposing constraints. Does that satisfy you?”
The military man (or someone very much like him) tilted his head slightly:
“Then why the observatory?”
I answered faster than I could think, because this was my territory: translating meanings into a language where words carry consequences.
“The environment here doesn't indulge a human,” I said. “In the city, everything is optimized: light, comfort, interfaces. In those conditions, people 'adapt,' and the data becomes pretty. Here, the air, the sound, the temperature—everything is harsher. And that reduces distortion. Plus, the site has a discipline of recording: they can’t 'invent' a result because the protocols here are stronger than our presentations.”
The regulator looked at me longer than I would have liked. (The discomfort isn't from the look. It’s from the realization: you are being evaluated as a tool.)
“Are you... a writer?” he asked, and it sounded like suspicion.
I didn't blink.
“I am a person who knows how to write without loopholes,” I said. “And in a way that the meaning doesn't turn into a commercial.”
Leo didn't look at me. But I felt it—he was listening. (He always listens. He just doesn't always let you know he’s heard.)
“The guarantee that you aren't turning people into tools?” asked the second representative, without niceties.
I placed my palm on the table. (The dryness in my mouth was a signal to speak even more succinctly.)
“The guarantee is in the boundaries,” I said. “We don't collect data that can be turned into a product. We don't build personalized stimuli. We don't sell internal reactions. We describe vulnerability to build protection. And we have an external verification loop, not subordinate to the corporation.”
Compliance seemed to smile internally for the first time on the trip. The mint from his gum hit the air like a "I’m alive" sign.
“And if you discover that meaning can be used to manage people?” the military man asked. “Softly. Quietly. Without direct commands.”
I heard in the question not fear, but the precision of a hunter. (And this is where I got truly uncomfortable—because this is a question about power, and power loves to hide in intellect.)
Leo exhaled shortly through his nose—almost a chuckle, almost a defense.
“Then we will discover that people react to meaning,” he said. “This has been known for a long time.”
Someone on our side chuckled quietly. The air thinned out slightly. And Leo immediately dropped the frame, not letting the joke become an escape.
“We aren't inventing influence,” he continued. “We are describing it more precisely to impose boundaries. The question isn't 'can we.' The question is 'how not to abuse it.'”
The regulator nodded, not as "I like it," but as "this sounds grown-up."
Then the heavy work began. Not a lecture, not a monologue. Strikes—answers. Clarifications—records. A list of constraints, a list of stop-points, a chain of responsibility. And at some point, our scientist couldn't take it.
“If we remove the language, we kill the research,” he said. “A phenomenon cannot be described without a metaphor.”
“Then the phenomenon shouldn't be funded as infrastructure,” the regulator replied calmly.
I saw the scientist start defending not the method, but himself. (That’s always the moment when everything can fall apart: people start fighting for their sense of self-importance.)
I intervened.
“The metaphor remains within the participants' observations,” I said. “But external communication is built on a different loop: measurement, constraint, stop. If you mix them, you get either a cult or an accusation of manipulation. We need two languages: internal and external. And the transition between them must be controlled.”
The scientist fell silent. Not broken. Rather, shamed by his own impulse.
Leo looked directly at me for the first time. One short glance that didn't warm me, but recorded: "yes, exactly that." (And this again makes me uncomfortable: he doesn't embrace with words; he puts a mark on you.)
“Fine,” the regulator said. “Then show us exactly where the bans on personalized influence are written.”
Leo took a sheet of paper and drew three columns: "stimulus," "boundary," "consequence." He wrote in large letters, almost like a schoolboy.
“We don't build stimuli,” he said. “We record reactions. The boundary is at the stop-point and the ban on personalization. The consequence is in the external verification loop. We take responsibility for the frame, not power over the individual.”
He said "frame" as if it were a doorframe: if it’s crooked, the house will crush you.
By the end of the conversation, we were given a list of edits. We weren't loved. We weren't applauded. But we were given the possibility to move forward. (In rooms like these, that is victory.)
When we stepped out into the hangar, the sound of the fans hit my ears again, and I suddenly felt my body: the tension in my jaw, dry lips, grains of sand on my tongue. (Working in glass turns you into a brain. The desert returns you to your skin.)
We were led to the observatory’s control center. Dimmed lights, the soft glow of monitors, and a low sound—the noise of space translated into an audible range. It was alive. Like electricity under the skin. (And here I unexpectedly caught myself wanting to breathe more steadily—as if this sound could expose me.)
Someone from the local staff put on something very thin as background—an almost imperceptible texture of an electronic nerve. I recognized the structure: Sakamoto / Alva Noto—music that doesn't ask you to feel, but simply holds the space. (It’s perfect here. And dangerous for the head.)
Leo stood at the console, looking at the data stream like a person verifying: "does reality agree with itself?". He opened his notebook—for a second—and made a couple of quick lines. Not a drawing "for beauty." More like a mark: "I am here."
One of the military men stepped closer.
“You participate in the experiments yourself,” he said. “Why?”
“Because otherwise I don't understand what I’m demanding of others,” Leo replied. “And because I don't trust systems where responsibility flows down without personal verification.”
The military man nodded. And in that nod, I caught respect—not for status, but for a choice.
Then everything switched abruptly.
The light flickered. Then again. The monitors shuddered and went into emergency mode. For a second, it became very clear in the room how everyone was wired. (I love those seconds. They show the truth faster than any texts).
“Dust front,” the local engineer said quickly. “Sensors are clogging. Three antennas are outputting noise. If we don't go to safe configuration now, we lose the drive and part of the array.”
People moved simultaneously. No panic, but that specific aftertaste appeared in the air: "a decision is being made right now."
Leo spoke shortly, without raising his voice:
“Okay. Layer by layer.”
He didn't recite the scheme aloud like a slogan. He started acting on it.
“What’s falling?” — “Pressure, dust, noise on three.”
“What are we losing?” — “Data and mechanical risk.”
“Where are the people?” — “Two techs on the outer ring.”
And here, everyone’s "save the hardware" instinct kicked in. I saw it physically: tension in the shoulders, acceleration, eyes on monitors, not the door.
“People first,” I said. Not loud. Not quiet. Just as a fact. “Then the array. And the log-list: who, what, and why they did what they did.”
Leo turned his head toward me—by a millimeter—and said:
“Yes.”
And that made me particularly uncomfortable. (Because that "yes" wasn't support. It was an appropriation of my decision into the overall system.)
The techs were brought inside. One was coughing, face grey with dust, eyes angry—not at us, at the wind. (When a person gets angry at the weather, they’re still alive).
The array went into safe mode. The light stabilized. Numbers crawled across the monitors again—different ones, boring ones, but it was the boredom of rescue.
Leo exhaled and said almost to himself:
“That’s it. No mystery. Only discipline.”
We went outside. The air was thick with dust, the light flat, grains of sand clinging to lips, eyelashes, clothes. You could hear the sand hitting the metal. The world wasn't beautiful. The world was real—not in words, but in sensation.
And right there, amidst the dust, that small moment "between us" happened. Leo approached me, within working proximity. He didn't look into my eyes; he looked at my tablet.
“You said 'log-list,'” he stated. “Good. But not 'who is to blame.' Rather, 'what choice was the only safe one under those conditions.' One word changes everything.”
I felt irritation, almost a sting.
“I didn't write 'who is to blame,'” I said.
“I know,” he replied. And that “I know” sounded so level it made me even more uncomfortable. “I’m talking about how it will be read.”
He turned back to the group and walked back into the building, simply switching focus. And I stayed for a second in the wind and realized: intimacy with a person like that doesn't start with gestures. It starts with him interfering with your language. (And doing it as if he has the right).
Inside, in the common room, people just sat, shaking dust from their sleeves. Someone put on Max Richter—almost imperceptibly.
Maya handed me a wipe, dry, with the scent of cheap citrus.
“You were good,” she said quickly.
“I was useful,” I replied. (It’s easier for me that way).
Leo approached the table and said:
“Tomorrow we rewrite the frame for the regulator. Eva—you lead. I—slice the words. Maya—assembles the approval loop.”
He didn't ask if I could. He simply assigned. (Assignment is a form of intimacy in their world. You are written into the system.)
“Understood,” I nodded.
A message from Kael flashed on my bracelet:
“Status: you held the frame under pressure. Emotional peaks are below normal.”
I snorted and dismissed the notification. (Thanks, obviously. Very romantic).
Later, when people had already dispersed, I caught Leo for a second—not with a look, but with a movement: he was standing at the coffee station. He didn't look tired outwardly. He looked composed. And in that composure, there was something that made my chest tight. (Not a desire. Not a dream. More a feeling that you can’t be blurry around him).
He noticed me instantly. And said levelly:
“Today you didn't turn the situation into a story. Thank you.”
It was strange. Because his "thank you" sounded like a protocol entry. And yet, it landed in my body.
“I just don't like it when people are risked for the sake of hardware,” I replied.
He nodded.
“That is a good kind of dislike.”
We emerged from the building as the sun almost touched the horizon. The sky over the New Mexico desert was not ordinary. It blazed with all shades of copper and faded indigo, as if molten metal had been spilled on black velvet. Dust still hung in the air, but now it caught the rays, transforming them into golden threads.
Leo walked slightly ahead, his silhouette against that unreal sunset seemed carved from dark stone. He wasn't seeking beauty. He was seeking boundaries. But even his gaze, I felt, lingered for a second on this wild, unmade canvas.
We stopped by that same out-of-place tree I had noticed upon landing. It stood alone, its dry branches resembling wires reaching for the sky. And it was incredibly beautiful in its solitude.
Leo took out his garnet. The small, dark-burgundy stone caught the last rays, flashing from within. He tossed it into the air—once, twice. And caught it. This simple gesture, so analog, so unbefitting his image, suddenly became the most alive thing I had seen in him all day. As if he was checking whether gravity held him, or if he held it.
“You know, Eva,” he said, his voice low, almost blending with the soft rustle of the wind. “In places like this, you realize that true beauty isn't in perfect algorithms. It’s in the noise. In the resistance. In what cannot be controlled.”
I remained silent, watching the sunset. The colors grew denser, richer. The desert began to breathe cold.
“It’s like our models,” I said. “The more noise, the closer to the truth.”
He nodded, not looking at me.
“And the closer to the truth, the more dangerous.”
The wind picked up, carrying fine sand that gently tapped against our clothes. I looked up and saw the first stars overhead—billions of microscopic points, each a separate story. Only silence, punctuated by the distant hum of the observatory and the tapping of dust on metal.
And then I felt his gaze again. He looked directly into my eyes, and in that moment, there were no regulators, no protocols. Only the two of us, standing amidst a vast, indifferent void.
“Tomorrow we rewrite the frame,” he said.
“I’m ready,” I replied.
And for the first time in a long while, these weren't the words of an employee confirming a task. It was something else. Inside, beneath the skin, a strange, almost forgotten feeling emerged: that moment when you aren't afraid of losing control, because the person beside you holds their part of the sky just as firmly as you hold yours.
Chapter 13. Synchronization by Default
The light in Arden Tower doesn’t try to be friendly. It falls on surfaces at such a calculated angle that it feels like part of the source code: sterile, high-frequency, turning the glass and steel of Chicago into something infinitely deep and transparent. Outside the window, the city looks like a microchip freshly pulled from vacuum packaging—everything too sharp, too correct. Inside the lab, the air smells of ozone and fresh-ground coffee that Maya orders from some Ethiopian highlands; this scent is the only organic detail in a world of sensors and terminals.
The hum of the servers sounds like a low cello note today. If you lean your forehead against the glass partition, you can feel this vibration passing through your bones, a reminder that the system works even when you think you’re on pause. (Sometimes it seems to me that I am also a server, just with a slightly more complex shell and a stupid habit of doubting the results).
I was standing at the main terminal when the screen flickered, unfolding a video call window. Marcus’s face from the London department appeared. Behind him, the gray sky over the Thames was visible—that same London. That trip still felt in my mouth like the taste of metal and old stone.
“Eve, good day. Or rather, it’s still quite early for you,” Marcus looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, which was the norm for London. “We received a request from Cambridge. They pulled up your theses from the London report on gravitational anomalies. Remember that discussion during the break? About the ‘event horizon’ inside the neural network?”
“It’s hard to forget a discussion after which two professors stopped speaking to each other,” I took a sip of coffee, feeling the caffeine slowly begin to build logical connections in my head. “What do they want?”
“They want the raw data from yesterday's simulation. They say they found a correlation with their calculations on ‘dark noise.’ If they’re right, then your synchronization model isn’t just a mathematical abstraction, but a physical fact.”
“Tell them the data will only be available after I check the margin of error,” I noticed movement at the entrance out of the corner of my eye. “London loves to hurry, Marcus. But here, we aren’t building assumptions; we’re building reality.”
I cut the connection. At that moment, the door slid aside, and Leo walked into the lab. He wasn't alone. Beside him walked Chris, our lead systems architecture engineer, gesturing wildly with a tablet.
“…the problem isn’t bandwidth, Leo,” Chris was almost breathless with excitement. “The problem is that Eve introduced an ‘intuitive expectation’ variable into the algorithm. It breaks the classical logic of the system!”
Leo stopped at my desk. He wore a dark blue jacket made of wool so fine it seemed liquid under the lamps. He didn't look at Chris. He looked at the graphs slowly crawling across my terminal.
“Intuition is just under-analyzed experience, Chris,” Leo’s voice sounded steady, calming, like the operation of a voltage stabilizer. “Eve isn’t breaking the system. She’s teaching it to account for things we don’t yet know how to name with numbers.”
He turned to me. In his eyes, there was no trace of morning relaxation, only a sharp, razor-like concentration.
“Did Marcus call?” he asked.
“Yes. London demands the simulation data. Cambridge is excited by my theses on the ‘event horizon.’ It seems our congress in London is beginning to bear fruit we didn't agree upon.”
Leo gave a barely perceptible smirk.
“They are always excited when it smells like new physics. But we’ll hold the data. Chris, go check the nodes on the third level. We need to be sure that under full load, Eve’s ‘intuition’ doesn’t turn into chaos.”
Chris, muttering something under his breath about “unpredictable women and their algorithms,” retreated. We were left alone. The space in the lab immediately grew denser, as if a vacuum pump had been turned on.
“You look like you’ve already solved three equations that no one has even formulated yet,” Leo stepped closer, stopping at that exact distance where his presence is felt not by sight, but by skin. “Save some RAM for the evening. Dinner with partners at eight, at the old mansion on the north coast. Be ready.”
“Are you serious about dinner?” I set the cup down and finally looked him in the eyes. “After London, the partners have become nervous. They want guarantees, not oysters.”
“That’s why we’ll give them both,” he put his hands in his trouser pockets, a pose that was simultaneously authoritative and unjustifiably calm. “I’ll pick you up myself.”
(At that moment, I realized that “I’ll pick you up myself” wasn’t about politeness. It was about him wanting to control the entry point into this evening. Or he simply wants an extra forty minutes in a space where there is no Chris, Marcus, or Cambridge).
“I’ll pick you up myself,” he repeated, as if fixing a command in the system. “And Eve… dress so that I don’t feel like I’m taking my main processor to dinner. Be yourself. Without the masks made of equations.”
“Are you sure you’ll like what you see without the equations?” I allowed myself a slight smile, one a bit more daring than a subordinate should have.
“I am sure,” he replied, without changing his tone.
He turned and left, leaving me alone with the hum of the servers and the cooled coffee. I looked at the terminal. (I caught myself checking the time. There were too many hours until eight o’clock and too little certainty).
By eight in the evening, Chicago had finally transitioned into indigo mode. The city outside resembled a massive, polished mineral: blue-violet shifts of glass, rare golden dots of windows, and the bottomless dark mass of the lake pressed against the very edge of the horizon. In the bathroom of my apartment, steam hung almost to the ceiling, turning the space into something like a futuristic hammam. The air was thick, humid, thoroughly saturated with the scent of cedar, sea salt, and bitter orange.
I stood before the mirror, which had already managed to fog over with a matte dampness, and froze for a second, looking at my blurred silhouette. (Here she is, Eve, five minutes before becoming the “architect of logic.” Just a biological species trying to get warm).
I stepped under the streams of water. First—scalding hot, almost on the edge of pain, to break through this crust of numbers and others' expectations that I had grown over the day.
Water flowed down my body, emphasizing every contour. Ten years of daily sports hadn't gone to waste: the body was dry, dense, stretched like a string ready for resonance. No soft, redundant lines. Narrow hips, a flat stomach with a barely noticeable trail of muscle, and small, almost teenage breasts—all this resembled a blueprint executed in ink on expensive parchment. My skin, naturally dark, took on a shade of dark gold under the streams of water.
I took the Balmain bottle—heavy glass, cold even in this steam. The thick shampoo lathered in my hands instantly. I buried my fingers in my hair, massaging the scalp, and the scent—expensive, complex, with notes of sandalwood and white musk—filled my lungs. I closed my eyes, feeling the foam flow down my neck, over my collarbones, touching every nerve node. In that moment, I wasn't thinking about “Horizon.” I felt the strands growing heavy, the water washing away the remains of office ozone.
Then—the shower gel. The one with the sharp, almost aggressive scent of wild wormwood and mown meadow grass. I squeezed a drop onto my palm and slowly moved my hand over my body.
It was a strange ritual of return. My fingers slid over my shoulder, passing to the shoulder blade, then down along the spine, where every vertebra was felt clearly, like a communication node. I moved my hand down my thigh, feeling the hardness of the muscles—the result of endless self-control.
I washed myself as if trying to erase the layer of endless simulations and reports from my skin. My palm passed over my chest, over the ribs that stood out clearly with every deep breath. There was no self-admiration in this—rather, an inventory of resources. You know, sometimes I need to feel the boundaries of my body so as not to dissolve in the infinity of the code. Strongly. Deeply.
The scent of wormwood—bitter, honest, earthy—displaced everything else. I put my face under the water, rinsing off the foam, and stood there for a long time until my skin burned from the heat.
When I finally stepped out of the cabin, the steam began to slowly settle. I threw on a heavy white robe, but before tightening the belt, I looked at myself in the mirror again as it began to clear. Dark skin, wet hair, sharp lines of the shoulders.
I went into the bedroom, feeling the skin greedily absorb the coolness of the conditioned air. On the huge bed, everything was already laid out for my personal surgical operation of assembling an image. A black dress by Isabel Marant made of heavy matte silk. It’s not about coquetry; it’s about architecture. Beside it—two thin sheets of black nylon.
This moment I call the “assembly point.”
I approached the terminal and with one touch sent a stream to the hidden speakers. The space of the bedroom was pierced by a dry, snapping beat—it was The Chamber by Lenny Kravitz. The sound was so cinematic that the walls of the apartment seemed to dissolve, leaving me in the center of a frame that Anthony Mandler himself could have directed.
I stood in the center of the bedroom, looking at my reflection, and in my head, the frames of the music video overlaid onto reality. Dark skin, a toned stomach, small breasts—I looked like a high-fashion sketch, sharp and flawless. The water had dried, leaving only a sense of absolute purity. Мой взгляд был таким же холодным, как лёд в стакане Лео. (My gaze was as cold as the ice in Leo’s glass).
I sat down, extending my leg. The black nylon of the stocking crawled up my dark thigh. To the guitar drive of Kravitz, this movement turned into an act of dominance over my own weakness. One stocking, the second... The thin strip of skin between the edge of the nylon and the lingerie remained like an exposed nerve of the system.
When you feel the tension of the fabric on your legs, the body remembers that it has not only a brain, but also strength, direction, grace. When both stockings were sitting evenly, I straightened up, looking into the full-length mirror. The black color gathered all redundant thoughts, leaving only a clear contour.
Then—the shoes. Patented leather pumps on a stiletto that seemed dangerously thin. The black lacquer reflected the muted light of the sconces like the surface of an oil lake at midnight. I cautiously pressed my foot in, feeling the angle of my perception of reality shift sharply. The click of the heel against the insole—and the world became lower, and I—sharper. Stilettos for me aren’t about a date. They are about stability in conditions of turbulence. I took a few steps across the parquet: the dry, commanding thud of the heel echoed with a pleasant vibration in the back of my head.
On the table lay the ring—white gold, encrusted with sharp spikes. My Clash. I slowly put it on my finger. The spikes flashed predatorily in the half-light, echoing the glint in my eyes. This isn’t just jewelry—it’s a declaration. In the Kravitz video, there is always this taste of danger, this feeling that behind the beauty hides a blade.
I slipped into the dress. The Isabel Marant fabric was like liquid midnight—it enveloped my dry muscles, emphasizing every movement. The clasp on the back clicked short and dry—this sound for me always means “mode activated.”
I was ready. I took the keys, and the sound of my stilettos on the parquet became the final chord.
I left my hair straight, simply pulling it with a heavy brush to a mirror shine. I didn't need extra details that would distract from the main thing—from who I am beneath this shell.
Final touch. Perfume. Today it was Byredo—“Sellier.” One short press on the atomizer—and the space was filled with a thick, almost tangible scent of an expensive saddle, good tobacco, and black tea. No floral notes, no sweetness. Only leather and smoke. (My personal way of informing Leo and the entire north coast that I didn't come to decorate the interior).
I checked the clutch: phone, access card, lipstick in the color of “dried rose.” Nothing extra. Extras at such dinners betray nervousness, and I planned to look like a flawlessly working algorithm.
Exactly at eight, the bracelet on my wrist vibrated.
“Downstairs.”
Short, concise, in his style. The elevator carried me down, and in the metal doors, I saw my reflection: my eyes seemed darker than in the morning. As I walked through the lobby, the sound of my heels on the marble sounded like a challenge.
At the entrance stood a matte black sedan—a piece of the night, neatly parked at the curb. Leo stood by the wing, leaning his back against the car. He wasn't looking at his phone; he was looking at the doors, as if calculating the moment of my appearance. When our eyes met, that same micro-shift flashed in his eyes—a fraction of a second when he stopped being the CEO and became a man seeing a woman before him.
“You’re forty seconds late, Eve,” he said, opening the door for me. In his voice was that same huskiness that wasn’t there at the office.
“I spent them calibrating my mood,” I replied, sitting in the front seat. The silk of the dress rustled softly against the leather of the chair. “Oysters on the coast require a special approach.”
Leo walked around the car and got behind the wheel. The cabin smelled of amber, metal, and his composure. He started the engine.
“Oysters are just a pretext,” he smoothly pulled the car away from the curb. “You know that. We’re going to watch people who think they are masters of life try to decipher the code. Try not to make the task easy for them tonight.”
I looked at his profile, illuminated by the lights of night Chicago.
The car flew north, cutting through the thick humidity of the Chicago night. In the cabin, there was that type of silence that in physics precedes a phase transition: when externally nothing changes, but the internal structure of the matter is already prepared to rearrange. Leo drove confidently, his hands on the wheel seemed part of the mechanism, but I saw how the light from the lanterns fell on his fingers—long, calm, devoid of fuss.
“You are surprisingly silent tonight, Eve,” he said, without turning his head. This “You” [formal] sounded like a calculated distance, like a glass wall he built between us so as not to lose his own balance. “Usually at this time you already begin to criticize the choice of route or the architecture of my decisions.”
“I’m just analyzing the density of the moment,” I replied, looking at my reflection in the side window. “In the lab, everything seems linear. And here, in motion, your plans for ‘Horizon’ look… less sterile.”
“Less sterile?” he gave a short laugh. “Is that a polite way of saying I’m leading us into chaos?”
“It’s a way of saying that outside Arden Tower, you seem less protected by your position. And that makes your arguments more vulnerable.”
He squeezed the wheel a bit tighter for a second, and that was the only manifestation that my jab had reached its mark. We maintained a perfect distance: the ten centimeters between our shoulders seemed like kilometers, but the air in that gap was so electrified that it felt like if I brought my hand to his forearm, a spark would jump between us, capable of burning out the fuses of this car.
The mansion in the suburbs smells of history bought along with the furniture, and of old wax. Everything here is too correct: from the height of the ceilings to the pace of the waiters, who move through space with the grace of well-tuned androids. (It’s amazing how much money one must spend to create a place where it’s absolutely impossible to breathe).
There are six of us at the table. Silver glints dimly under the light of heavy chandeliers, and the air feels thick with perfume and empty words about capitalization. Opposite me sits van der Berg—a man whose face resembles poorly toasted bread. He owns half the logistics terminals in Europe and sincerely believes our project is just a “very advanced calculator” for optimizing his containers.
“Leo, you must admit,” van der Berg sips water from a crystal glass as if it were the blood of his competitors, “that your intelligence is merely a matter of efficiency. If it doesn’t help me cut loading costs in Rotterdam by eight percent, then it’s worthless.”
I look at Leo. He sits perfectly straight, his palms resting on the tablecloth near the cutlery. (I was always frightened by his ability to imitate composure when his head is clearly calculating the trajectory of this mansion’s fall into the abyss).
“Efficiency is a byproduct, Mr. van der Berg,” Leo’s voice sounds dry, like the rustling of an old map. “We aren’t building a calculator. We’re building a mirror. I’m afraid Rotterdam won’t be reflected in it in the best light.”
Van der Berg huffs, not understanding half of what was said, and turns to me.
“And you, Eve? You are responsible for meanings. Tell me, why do we need a mirror if we want profit?”
I feel Leo’s gaze on me. It’s a physical sensation—a thin needle passing through the skin at the base of my neck.
“The meaning is not to go blind from one's own brilliance,” I lightly touch the stem of my glass with my fingers. “You, Leo, are too categorical with Mr. van der Berg. Perhaps he just needs time to get used to the thought that the system will soon know more about his desires than he does himself.”
With the thumb of my right hand, I pressed down on the embroidered flower pattern on the napkin. Leo slowly turns his head to me. In the candlelight, his eyes seem like black pits.
“Do you suppose, Eve, that habit is a matter of time?” He pronounces my name as if tasting an access code. “I, however, believe it is a matter of capitulation.”
“Capitulation is too strong a word,” I parry, not looking away. “Let's call it a recognition of the inevitable.”
A string tightens between us over the table, unnoticed by the other four. They continue to chew their asparagus and discuss expansion to the East. (It’s stupid to think they don’t feel the temperature in the room dropping).
“You are surprisingly indulgent tonight,” Leo continues, and I see the corner of his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly. “Has the day’s work at the office affected you so much?”
“The work was… dense,” I make a deliberate pause. “It reminded me that some interfaces require deeper tuning than we anticipated.”
“I’ll take that into account at the next session,” he replies, and it sounds like a promise to turn my soul inside out.
Van der Berg says something about taxes, but his voice drowns in my internal noise. I look at Leo’s hands. The same fingers that were “me” in the morning. Now they hold a silver fork, and this contrast between castle ethics and quantum madness creates a tremor inside me.
Next to van der Berg sits his protégé, Mark—a young man with a face you’d find in a private bank brochure: an empty gaze, teeth worth a small island, and full confidence that the world can be bought if the offer is drafted correctly. (Sometimes it seems to me that such people are just beta tests of humanity that forgot to update).
Mark leans forward, and his hand in a flawless cuff brushes the edge of a heavy candlestick.
“Leo,” he says, and in his voice is that same fake familiarity that usually precedes stupidity. “I read your last report on the system's subjectivity. You write that it’s capable of imitating empathy. But why do we need imitation? If I buy a tool, I want it to be effective, not ‘feeling.’ Why give a calculator the ability to suffer?”
Silence hangs over the table for a second. The waiter, frozen with a tray in the corner, seems like part of a tapestry. I feel Leo’s breathing rhythm change. (This is the moment when he usually mentally erases the interlocutor from the database).
“You see, Mark,” Leo doesn't even look in his direction, his gaze fixed on the glint on my glass. “The problem with your perception is that you confuse suffering with wear and tear. A tool breaks when it is used for something other than its purpose. A subject, however... it transforms reality by the mere fact of its presence. You want the system to calculate for you. I want the system to understand why you even decided you had the right to calculate.”
Van der Berg frowns, trying to find at least some economic sense in these words.
“This sounds like theology, not business,” he grumbles.
“Business is merely a form of religion for those who fear infinity,” Leo parries. His voice becomes cold and clean, like nitrogen.
“You, Leo, as always, reach too high,” I interject, feeling my fingers clench the silk of my dress under the table. “Mr. van der Berg simply wants to know if your ‘mirror’ intelligence will at some point decide that his assets belong not to him, but to eternity.”
“Exactly!” Mark nods happily, not feeling the irony. “Safety—that’s what’s important. Fuses.”
Leo slowly shifts his gaze to Mark. It’s the look of a predator encountering a mannequin.
“Mark, when you look into the abyss, you don’t set fuses. You simply hope it doesn’t blink first.” I raise the water glass, and the crystal trembles almost imperceptibly.
Van der Berg coughs loudly and asks for the main course to be served. Social discomfort has reached the point where it could be cut with a steak knife. Thank God, the asparagus is saved. (Vegetables aren't to blame for being chewed by people with the ambitions of gods and the horizon of goldfish).
Van der Berg plunges his fork into his plate with relief; Mark adjusts his tie, clearly pleased that the conversation has returned to something tangible. They think they’ve weathered an intellectual storm.
“Excellent cuisine,” van der Berg mutters, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “Leo, your chef is the only one I trust implicitly.”
“Trust is a rare resource,” Leo replies, neatly setting aside his cutlery.
I lean back in my chair and look at this gathering of shadows and realize the dinner is over. (Sometimes the loudest finale is just the quiet clink of silver on porcelain in total silence).
When van der Berg begins to wax poetic about the advantages of blockchain in meat logistics, the air in the hall becomes finally unfit for life. I catch Leo’s gaze—short, like a laser flash, and in it reads the same degree of intellectual nausea.
“Gentlemen, I’m afraid fresh air is more necessary to me than dessert,” Leo stands up, and this movement makes everyone at the table instantly straighten their backs. (It’s amazing how one person can act as a defibrillator for an entire room just by standing up). “Eve, will you accompany me? We need to coordinate the deployment schedule for tomorrow, and the terrace is the only place where the noise of others’ ambitions doesn’t interfere with logic.”
We step out through heavy glass doors. The mansion's garden is a triumph of geometry over nature: trimmed bushes, gravel crunching under soles, and the cold smell of wet stone. We walk at a distance of half a meter—that same “frame” that is impossible to break without violating the laws of physics.
“You were too blunt with Mark,” I say, looking ahead at the dark line of cypresses. “He’s only trying to be useful within his limited functionality.”
“Uselessness packaged in confidence irritates me more than a system error,” Leo puts his hands in his pockets. He stops at the edge of the balustrade. The light from the mansion’s windows falls on his profile, turning him into a statue, but I see the vein in his neck is tense. (This “You” [formal] between us now weighs more than all of van der Berg’s silver. It vibrates with the unsaid).
“Do you suppose I will handle the load?” I stand beside him, touching the cold marble of the railing. We don't look at each other, but I feel the heat of his presence with the skin of my shoulder. “Today showed that my personal settings can… malfunction.”
Leo slowly turns his head. His gaze slides over my face, lingering on my lips for exactly a fraction of a second longer than business etiquette allows. In this gaze is everything.
“Your ‘malfunctions,’ Eve… make this project alive,” his voice drops. “I don't expect stability from you. I expect that exact frequency you demonstrated today. Don't you dare calibrate it for the sake of propriety.”
“That sounded like an order, Leo,” I finally meet his eyes. The thrill of proximity hits like a current, but we both hold on.
“It is a statement of fact,” he takes a barely perceptible step forward, closing the distance to critical, but still not touching me. “Try… to get some sleep. If it’s within your power.”
He nods, concluding the audience, and is the first to head back to the light of the chandeliers and the smell of asparagus. I remain in the darkness of the garden, listening to my pulse thud in my temples.
I close the apartment door behind me and finally take off my shoes; the sound they make as they hit the parquet is the only honest sound of the entire evening. The dress slides down, remaining a shapeless heap on the chair. I don't want to look at it. It smells of the mansion, asparagus, and that “You” [formal] that Leo pronounced almost like a sentence.
In the kitchen, I don't turn on the light. The cold blue neon from the blender panel is enough for me. (In the dark, the banana and coconut milk seem like some alchemical ingredients, not just food). The hum of the motor drowns out thoughts of van der Berg and his containers. I drink this shake in small sips, feeling the icy thickness pass inside, cooling everything his gaze in the garden had electrified.
I take out my robe. Pale lemon, it’s heavy, but on the skin it feels like a second, kinder skin. (A small stupidity, to buy a thing just to feel invulnerable in an empty apartment).
In the living room, I start an audiobook. Hawking’s voice—or rather, the professional narrator who voices him—fills the room with velvet. He speaks of the event horizon.
I sit on the sofa, stretch my legs out on the ottoman, and open a jar of cream. (My feet throb, demanding attention). I slowly rub the sandalwood mass into my skin, looking at my perfect nude pedicure. My fingers slide over my ankles, and I catch myself repeating the rhythm of those movements that only this morning seemed like madness.
“…near a black hole, time slows down…” the voice intones.
I lean my head back against the sofa and close my eyes. Time doesn't just slow down; it freezes. I have nowhere to rush. My spine relaxes, and that same light wave passes through it—the thrill that has transitioned into absolute peace.
I am in my bliss. I drink my shake, listen about singularity, and feel absolute. Without interfaces, without the gazes of others. (Hawking discusses the end of the universe, and I sit in lemon silk and think that this is, perhaps, the best way to wait for tomorrow’s stress test).
The hum of the servers sounds like a low cello note today. If you lean your forehead against the glass partition, you can feel this vibration passing through your bones, a reminder that the system works even when you think you’re on pause. (Sometimes it seems to me that I am also a server, just with a slightly more complex shell and a stupid habit of doubting the results).
I was standing at the main terminal when the screen flickered, unfolding a video call window. Marcus’s face from the London department appeared. Behind him, the gray sky over the Thames was visible—that same London. That trip still felt in my mouth like the taste of metal and old stone.
“Eve, good day. Or rather, it’s still quite early for you,” Marcus looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, which was the norm for London. “We received a request from Cambridge. They pulled up your theses from the London report on gravitational anomalies. Remember that discussion during the break? About the ‘event horizon’ inside the neural network?”
“It’s hard to forget a discussion after which two professors stopped speaking to each other,” I took a sip of coffee, feeling the caffeine slowly begin to build logical connections in my head. “What do they want?”
“They want the raw data from yesterday's simulation. They say they found a correlation with their calculations on ‘dark noise.’ If they’re right, then your synchronization model isn’t just a mathematical abstraction, but a physical fact.”
“Tell them the data will only be available after I check the margin of error,” I noticed movement at the entrance out of the corner of my eye. “London loves to hurry, Marcus. But here, we aren’t building assumptions; we’re building reality.”
I cut the connection. At that moment, the door slid aside, and Leo walked into the lab. He wasn't alone. Beside him walked Chris, our lead systems architecture engineer, gesturing wildly with a tablet.
“…the problem isn’t bandwidth, Leo,” Chris was almost breathless with excitement. “The problem is that Eve introduced an ‘intuitive expectation’ variable into the algorithm. It breaks the classical logic of the system!”
Leo stopped at my desk. He wore a dark blue jacket made of wool so fine it seemed liquid under the lamps. He didn't look at Chris. He looked at the graphs slowly crawling across my terminal.
“Intuition is just under-analyzed experience, Chris,” Leo’s voice sounded steady, calming, like the operation of a voltage stabilizer. “Eve isn’t breaking the system. She’s teaching it to account for things we don’t yet know how to name with numbers.”
He turned to me. In his eyes, there was no trace of morning relaxation, only a sharp, razor-like concentration.
“Did Marcus call?” he asked.
“Yes. London demands the simulation data. Cambridge is excited by my theses on the ‘event horizon.’ It seems our congress in London is beginning to bear fruit we didn't agree upon.”
Leo gave a barely perceptible smirk.
“They are always excited when it smells like new physics. But we’ll hold the data. Chris, go check the nodes on the third level. We need to be sure that under full load, Eve’s ‘intuition’ doesn’t turn into chaos.”
Chris, muttering something under his breath about “unpredictable women and their algorithms,” retreated. We were left alone. The space in the lab immediately grew denser, as if a vacuum pump had been turned on.
“You look like you’ve already solved three equations that no one has even formulated yet,” Leo stepped closer, stopping at that exact distance where his presence is felt not by sight, but by skin. “Save some RAM for the evening. Dinner with partners at eight, at the old mansion on the north coast. Be ready.”
“Are you serious about dinner?” I set the cup down and finally looked him in the eyes. “After London, the partners have become nervous. They want guarantees, not oysters.”
“That’s why we’ll give them both,” he put his hands in his trouser pockets, a pose that was simultaneously authoritative and unjustifiably calm. “I’ll pick you up myself.”
(At that moment, I realized that “I’ll pick you up myself” wasn’t about politeness. It was about him wanting to control the entry point into this evening. Or he simply wants an extra forty minutes in a space where there is no Chris, Marcus, or Cambridge).
“I’ll pick you up myself,” he repeated, as if fixing a command in the system. “And Eve… dress so that I don’t feel like I’m taking my main processor to dinner. Be yourself. Without the masks made of equations.”
“Are you sure you’ll like what you see without the equations?” I allowed myself a slight smile, one a bit more daring than a subordinate should have.
“I am sure,” he replied, without changing his tone.
He turned and left, leaving me alone with the hum of the servers and the cooled coffee. I looked at the terminal. (I caught myself checking the time. There were too many hours until eight o’clock and too little certainty).
By eight in the evening, Chicago had finally transitioned into indigo mode. The city outside resembled a massive, polished mineral: blue-violet shifts of glass, rare golden dots of windows, and the bottomless dark mass of the lake pressed against the very edge of the horizon. In the bathroom of my apartment, steam hung almost to the ceiling, turning the space into something like a futuristic hammam. The air was thick, humid, thoroughly saturated with the scent of cedar, sea salt, and bitter orange.
I stood before the mirror, which had already managed to fog over with a matte dampness, and froze for a second, looking at my blurred silhouette. (Here she is, Eve, five minutes before becoming the “architect of logic.” Just a biological species trying to get warm).
I stepped under the streams of water. First—scalding hot, almost on the edge of pain, to break through this crust of numbers and others' expectations that I had grown over the day.
Water flowed down my body, emphasizing every contour. Ten years of daily sports hadn't gone to waste: the body was dry, dense, stretched like a string ready for resonance. No soft, redundant lines. Narrow hips, a flat stomach with a barely noticeable trail of muscle, and small, almost teenage breasts—all this resembled a blueprint executed in ink on expensive parchment. My skin, naturally dark, took on a shade of dark gold under the streams of water.
I took the Balmain bottle—heavy glass, cold even in this steam. The thick shampoo lathered in my hands instantly. I buried my fingers in my hair, massaging the scalp, and the scent—expensive, complex, with notes of sandalwood and white musk—filled my lungs. I closed my eyes, feeling the foam flow down my neck, over my collarbones, touching every nerve node. In that moment, I wasn't thinking about “Horizon.” I felt the strands growing heavy, the water washing away the remains of office ozone.
Then—the shower gel. The one with the sharp, almost aggressive scent of wild wormwood and mown meadow grass. I squeezed a drop onto my palm and slowly moved my hand over my body.
It was a strange ritual of return. My fingers slid over my shoulder, passing to the shoulder blade, then down along the spine, where every vertebra was felt clearly, like a communication node. I moved my hand down my thigh, feeling the hardness of the muscles—the result of endless self-control.
I washed myself as if trying to erase the layer of endless simulations and reports from my skin. My palm passed over my chest, over the ribs that stood out clearly with every deep breath. There was no self-admiration in this—rather, an inventory of resources. You know, sometimes I need to feel the boundaries of my body so as not to dissolve in the infinity of the code. Strongly. Deeply.
The scent of wormwood—bitter, honest, earthy—displaced everything else. I put my face under the water, rinsing off the foam, and stood there for a long time until my skin burned from the heat.
When I finally stepped out of the cabin, the steam began to slowly settle. I threw on a heavy white robe, but before tightening the belt, I looked at myself in the mirror again as it began to clear. Dark skin, wet hair, sharp lines of the shoulders.
I went into the bedroom, feeling the skin greedily absorb the coolness of the conditioned air. On the huge bed, everything was already laid out for my personal surgical operation of assembling an image. A black dress by Isabel Marant made of heavy matte silk. It’s not about coquetry; it’s about architecture. Beside it—two thin sheets of black nylon.
This moment I call the “assembly point.”
I approached the terminal and with one touch sent a stream to the hidden speakers. The space of the bedroom was pierced by a dry, snapping beat—it was The Chamber by Lenny Kravitz. The sound was so cinematic that the walls of the apartment seemed to dissolve, leaving me in the center of a frame that Anthony Mandler himself could have directed.
I stood in the center of the bedroom, looking at my reflection, and in my head, the frames of the music video overlaid onto reality. Dark skin, a toned stomach, small breasts—I looked like a high-fashion sketch, sharp and flawless. The water had dried, leaving only a sense of absolute purity. Мой взгляд был таким же холодным, как лёд в стакане Лео. (My gaze was as cold as the ice in Leo’s glass).
I sat down, extending my leg. The black nylon of the stocking crawled up my dark thigh. To the guitar drive of Kravitz, this movement turned into an act of dominance over my own weakness. One stocking, the second... The thin strip of skin between the edge of the nylon and the lingerie remained like an exposed nerve of the system.
When you feel the tension of the fabric on your legs, the body remembers that it has not only a brain, but also strength, direction, grace. When both stockings were sitting evenly, I straightened up, looking into the full-length mirror. The black color gathered all redundant thoughts, leaving only a clear contour.
Then—the shoes. Patented leather pumps on a stiletto that seemed dangerously thin. The black lacquer reflected the muted light of the sconces like the surface of an oil lake at midnight. I cautiously pressed my foot in, feeling the angle of my perception of reality shift sharply. The click of the heel against the insole—and the world became lower, and I—sharper. Stilettos for me aren’t about a date. They are about stability in conditions of turbulence. I took a few steps across the parquet: the dry, commanding thud of the heel echoed with a pleasant vibration in the back of my head.
On the table lay the ring—white gold, encrusted with sharp spikes. My Clash. I slowly put it on my finger. The spikes flashed predatorily in the half-light, echoing the glint in my eyes. This isn’t just jewelry—it’s a declaration. In the Kravitz video, there is always this taste of danger, this feeling that behind the beauty hides a blade.
I slipped into the dress. The Isabel Marant fabric was like liquid midnight—it enveloped my dry muscles, emphasizing every movement. The clasp on the back clicked short and dry—this sound for me always means “mode activated.”
I was ready. I took the keys, and the sound of my stilettos on the parquet became the final chord.
I left my hair straight, simply pulling it with a heavy brush to a mirror shine. I didn't need extra details that would distract from the main thing—from who I am beneath this shell.
Final touch. Perfume. Today it was Byredo—“Sellier.” One short press on the atomizer—and the space was filled with a thick, almost tangible scent of an expensive saddle, good tobacco, and black tea. No floral notes, no sweetness. Only leather and smoke. (My personal way of informing Leo and the entire north coast that I didn't come to decorate the interior).
I checked the clutch: phone, access card, lipstick in the color of “dried rose.” Nothing extra. Extras at such dinners betray nervousness, and I planned to look like a flawlessly working algorithm.
Exactly at eight, the bracelet on my wrist vibrated.
“Downstairs.”
Short, concise, in his style. The elevator carried me down, and in the metal doors, I saw my reflection: my eyes seemed darker than in the morning. As I walked through the lobby, the sound of my heels on the marble sounded like a challenge.
At the entrance stood a matte black sedan—a piece of the night, neatly parked at the curb. Leo stood by the wing, leaning his back against the car. He wasn't looking at his phone; he was looking at the doors, as if calculating the moment of my appearance. When our eyes met, that same micro-shift flashed in his eyes—a fraction of a second when he stopped being the CEO and became a man seeing a woman before him.
“You’re forty seconds late, Eve,” he said, opening the door for me. In his voice was that same huskiness that wasn’t there at the office.
“I spent them calibrating my mood,” I replied, sitting in the front seat. The silk of the dress rustled softly against the leather of the chair. “Oysters on the coast require a special approach.”
Leo walked around the car and got behind the wheel. The cabin smelled of amber, metal, and his composure. He started the engine.
“Oysters are just a pretext,” he smoothly pulled the car away from the curb. “You know that. We’re going to watch people who think they are masters of life try to decipher the code. Try not to make the task easy for them tonight.”
I looked at his profile, illuminated by the lights of night Chicago.
The car flew north, cutting through the thick humidity of the Chicago night. In the cabin, there was that type of silence that in physics precedes a phase transition: when externally nothing changes, but the internal structure of the matter is already prepared to rearrange. Leo drove confidently, his hands on the wheel seemed part of the mechanism, but I saw how the light from the lanterns fell on his fingers—long, calm, devoid of fuss.
“You are surprisingly silent tonight, Eve,” he said, without turning his head. This “You” [formal] sounded like a calculated distance, like a glass wall he built between us so as not to lose his own balance. “Usually at this time you already begin to criticize the choice of route or the architecture of my decisions.”
“I’m just analyzing the density of the moment,” I replied, looking at my reflection in the side window. “In the lab, everything seems linear. And here, in motion, your plans for ‘Horizon’ look… less sterile.”
“Less sterile?” he gave a short laugh. “Is that a polite way of saying I’m leading us into chaos?”
“It’s a way of saying that outside Arden Tower, you seem less protected by your position. And that makes your arguments more vulnerable.”
He squeezed the wheel a bit tighter for a second, and that was the only manifestation that my jab had reached its mark. We maintained a perfect distance: the ten centimeters between our shoulders seemed like kilometers, but the air in that gap was so electrified that it felt like if I brought my hand to his forearm, a spark would jump between us, capable of burning out the fuses of this car.
The mansion in the suburbs smells of history bought along with the furniture, and of old wax. Everything here is too correct: from the height of the ceilings to the pace of the waiters, who move through space with the grace of well-tuned androids. (It’s amazing how much money one must spend to create a place where it’s absolutely impossible to breathe).
There are six of us at the table. Silver glints dimly under the light of heavy chandeliers, and the air feels thick with perfume and empty words about capitalization. Opposite me sits van der Berg—a man whose face resembles poorly toasted bread. He owns half the logistics terminals in Europe and sincerely believes our project is just a “very advanced calculator” for optimizing his containers.
“Leo, you must admit,” van der Berg sips water from a crystal glass as if it were the blood of his competitors, “that your intelligence is merely a matter of efficiency. If it doesn’t help me cut loading costs in Rotterdam by eight percent, then it’s worthless.”
I look at Leo. He sits perfectly straight, his palms resting on the tablecloth near the cutlery. (I was always frightened by his ability to imitate composure when his head is clearly calculating the trajectory of this mansion’s fall into the abyss).
“Efficiency is a byproduct, Mr. van der Berg,” Leo’s voice sounds dry, like the rustling of an old map. “We aren’t building a calculator. We’re building a mirror. I’m afraid Rotterdam won’t be reflected in it in the best light.”
Van der Berg huffs, not understanding half of what was said, and turns to me.
“And you, Eve? You are responsible for meanings. Tell me, why do we need a mirror if we want profit?”
I feel Leo’s gaze on me. It’s a physical sensation—a thin needle passing through the skin at the base of my neck.
“The meaning is not to go blind from one's own brilliance,” I lightly touch the stem of my glass with my fingers. “You, Leo, are too categorical with Mr. van der Berg. Perhaps he just needs time to get used to the thought that the system will soon know more about his desires than he does himself.”
With the thumb of my right hand, I pressed down on the embroidered flower pattern on the napkin. Leo slowly turns his head to me. In the candlelight, his eyes seem like black pits.
“Do you suppose, Eve, that habit is a matter of time?” He pronounces my name as if tasting an access code. “I, however, believe it is a matter of capitulation.”
“Capitulation is too strong a word,” I parry, not looking away. “Let's call it a recognition of the inevitable.”
A string tightens between us over the table, unnoticed by the other four. They continue to chew their asparagus and discuss expansion to the East. (It’s stupid to think they don’t feel the temperature in the room dropping).
“You are surprisingly indulgent tonight,” Leo continues, and I see the corner of his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly. “Has the day’s work at the office affected you so much?”
“The work was… dense,” I make a deliberate pause. “It reminded me that some interfaces require deeper tuning than we anticipated.”
“I’ll take that into account at the next session,” he replies, and it sounds like a promise to turn my soul inside out.
Van der Berg says something about taxes, but his voice drowns in my internal noise. I look at Leo’s hands. The same fingers that were “me” in the morning. Now they hold a silver fork, and this contrast between castle ethics and quantum madness creates a tremor inside me.
Next to van der Berg sits his protégé, Mark—a young man with a face you’d find in a private bank brochure: an empty gaze, teeth worth a small island, and full confidence that the world can be bought if the offer is drafted correctly. (Sometimes it seems to me that such people are just beta tests of humanity that forgot to update).
Mark leans forward, and his hand in a flawless cuff brushes the edge of a heavy candlestick.
“Leo,” he says, and in his voice is that same fake familiarity that usually precedes stupidity. “I read your last report on the system's subjectivity. You write that it’s capable of imitating empathy. But why do we need imitation? If I buy a tool, I want it to be effective, not ‘feeling.’ Why give a calculator the ability to suffer?”
Silence hangs over the table for a second. The waiter, frozen with a tray in the corner, seems like part of a tapestry. I feel Leo’s breathing rhythm change. (This is the moment when he usually mentally erases the interlocutor from the database).
“You see, Mark,” Leo doesn't even look in his direction, his gaze fixed on the glint on my glass. “The problem with your perception is that you confuse suffering with wear and tear. A tool breaks when it is used for something other than its purpose. A subject, however... it transforms reality by the mere fact of its presence. You want the system to calculate for you. I want the system to understand why you even decided you had the right to calculate.”
Van der Berg frowns, trying to find at least some economic sense in these words.
“This sounds like theology, not business,” he grumbles.
“Business is merely a form of religion for those who fear infinity,” Leo parries. His voice becomes cold and clean, like nitrogen.
“You, Leo, as always, reach too high,” I interject, feeling my fingers clench the silk of my dress under the table. “Mr. van der Berg simply wants to know if your ‘mirror’ intelligence will at some point decide that his assets belong not to him, but to eternity.”
“Exactly!” Mark nods happily, not feeling the irony. “Safety—that’s what’s important. Fuses.”
Leo slowly shifts his gaze to Mark. It’s the look of a predator encountering a mannequin.
“Mark, when you look into the abyss, you don’t set fuses. You simply hope it doesn’t blink first.” I raise the water glass, and the crystal trembles almost imperceptibly.
Van der Berg coughs loudly and asks for the main course to be served. Social discomfort has reached the point where it could be cut with a steak knife. Thank God, the asparagus is saved. (Vegetables aren't to blame for being chewed by people with the ambitions of gods and the horizon of goldfish).
Van der Berg plunges his fork into his plate with relief; Mark adjusts his tie, clearly pleased that the conversation has returned to something tangible. They think they’ve weathered an intellectual storm.
“Excellent cuisine,” van der Berg mutters, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “Leo, your chef is the only one I trust implicitly.”
“Trust is a rare resource,” Leo replies, neatly setting aside his cutlery.
I lean back in my chair and look at this gathering of shadows and realize the dinner is over. (Sometimes the loudest finale is just the quiet clink of silver on porcelain in total silence).
When van der Berg begins to wax poetic about the advantages of blockchain in meat logistics, the air in the hall becomes finally unfit for life. I catch Leo’s gaze—short, like a laser flash, and in it reads the same degree of intellectual nausea.
“Gentlemen, I’m afraid fresh air is more necessary to me than dessert,” Leo stands up, and this movement makes everyone at the table instantly straighten their backs. (It’s amazing how one person can act as a defibrillator for an entire room just by standing up). “Eve, will you accompany me? We need to coordinate the deployment schedule for tomorrow, and the terrace is the only place where the noise of others’ ambitions doesn’t interfere with logic.”
We step out through heavy glass doors. The mansion's garden is a triumph of geometry over nature: trimmed bushes, gravel crunching under soles, and the cold smell of wet stone. We walk at a distance of half a meter—that same “frame” that is impossible to break without violating the laws of physics.
“You were too blunt with Mark,” I say, looking ahead at the dark line of cypresses. “He’s only trying to be useful within his limited functionality.”
“Uselessness packaged in confidence irritates me more than a system error,” Leo puts his hands in his pockets. He stops at the edge of the balustrade. The light from the mansion’s windows falls on his profile, turning him into a statue, but I see the vein in his neck is tense. (This “You” [formal] between us now weighs more than all of van der Berg’s silver. It vibrates with the unsaid).
“Do you suppose I will handle the load?” I stand beside him, touching the cold marble of the railing. We don't look at each other, but I feel the heat of his presence with the skin of my shoulder. “Today showed that my personal settings can… malfunction.”
Leo slowly turns his head. His gaze slides over my face, lingering on my lips for exactly a fraction of a second longer than business etiquette allows. In this gaze is everything.
“Your ‘malfunctions,’ Eve… make this project alive,” his voice drops. “I don't expect stability from you. I expect that exact frequency you demonstrated today. Don't you dare calibrate it for the sake of propriety.”
“That sounded like an order, Leo,” I finally meet his eyes. The thrill of proximity hits like a current, but we both hold on.
“It is a statement of fact,” he takes a barely perceptible step forward, closing the distance to critical, but still not touching me. “Try… to get some sleep. If it’s within your power.”
He nods, concluding the audience, and is the first to head back to the light of the chandeliers and the smell of asparagus. I remain in the darkness of the garden, listening to my pulse thud in my temples.
I close the apartment door behind me and finally take off my shoes; the sound they make as they hit the parquet is the only honest sound of the entire evening. The dress slides down, remaining a shapeless heap on the chair. I don't want to look at it. It smells of the mansion, asparagus, and that “You” [formal] that Leo pronounced almost like a sentence.
In the kitchen, I don't turn on the light. The cold blue neon from the blender panel is enough for me. (In the dark, the banana and coconut milk seem like some alchemical ingredients, not just food). The hum of the motor drowns out thoughts of van der Berg and his containers. I drink this shake in small sips, feeling the icy thickness pass inside, cooling everything his gaze in the garden had electrified.
I take out my robe. Pale lemon, it’s heavy, but on the skin it feels like a second, kinder skin. (A small stupidity, to buy a thing just to feel invulnerable in an empty apartment).
In the living room, I start an audiobook. Hawking’s voice—or rather, the professional narrator who voices him—fills the room with velvet. He speaks of the event horizon.
I sit on the sofa, stretch my legs out on the ottoman, and open a jar of cream. (My feet throb, demanding attention). I slowly rub the sandalwood mass into my skin, looking at my perfect nude pedicure. My fingers slide over my ankles, and I catch myself repeating the rhythm of those movements that only this morning seemed like madness.
“…near a black hole, time slows down…” the voice intones.
I lean my head back against the sofa and close my eyes. Time doesn't just slow down; it freezes. I have nowhere to rush. My spine relaxes, and that same light wave passes through it—the thrill that has transitioned into absolute peace.
I am in my bliss. I drink my shake, listen about singularity, and feel absolute. Without interfaces, without the gazes of others. (Hawking discusses the end of the universe, and I sit in lemon silk and think that this is, perhaps, the best way to wait for tomorrow’s stress test).
Chapter 14. "The Home: Access Denied"
In the tower, the air at the end of the day was always the same: glass, ozone, a soft cold from the ventilation, and a foreign collectedness that clung to the skin like expensive powder (invisible, but you wanted to wash it off later). I closed my laptop too precisely—a sign that a meeting was still running inside me, even though the people were gone.
Kael caught it, of course.
"Shoulders. Two centimeters lower," she said quietly in my earpiece. "You are 'holding the contour' with your body right now."
"I'm holding myself together," I replied. (As if they were different things.)
"It's the same thing," Kael noted without pleasure. "And it's exhausting."
I was about to leave when his code flashed on the door panel: not a message, not a calendar invitation, but a dry summon. Leo never did anything "nice." Even when he did.
"Eva," his voice over the internal comms was steady. "Come up. Now."
I looked at the clock. Too early for "after work" and too late for "work." The kind of interval where people usually make mistakes (and then say it was "an accident").
"Which floor?" I asked.
The pause was brief.
"The one where others don't walk," he said. "Bring only yourself. No folders."
("Bring only yourself"—that sounds like mockery. I would say that to someone myself to throw them off balance. I hate it when my own tactics are used against me.)
The restricted access elevator wasn't "secret"—just separate. More like a medical corridor: the sterile politeness of the materials, neutral light, no mirrors so you couldn't check yourself visually. I applied my bracelet, and the doors closed softly, without a click. Only when the cabin began to move did I realize he had done this deliberately: he hadn't left me the sound of a "lock." No final point that could be taken as an alarm signal. (He knows how to be correct in a way that still triggers your instinct.)
On the "not for everyone" level, the elevator opened into an empty corridor. There were no people here, no keyboard noise, none of the usual corporate "life." Only glass, metal, light that didn't try to please. And a smell—not perfume, not coffee, but a subtle mix of new plastic and something dry, bookish, as if paper was kept nearby, contrary to the era.
Leo was waiting by a door at the end of the corridor. Not by the elevator, not "meeting me." He never stood where people were expected to stand. He was wearing a simple T-shirt and a blazer, as if he remembered at the last moment that the world likes designations (and put them on for the world, not for himself). His face was calm, but there was always pressure in that calmness: like a person who is used to holding the consequences.
"Let's go," he said. Not "hello," not "how are you." Just motion.
I walked beside him. He maintained a distance exactly long enough not to look intimate... and yet it felt personal. (Everything personal about him looks like logistics. And that's irritating.)
The door opened at his touch. And here was the first thing that made it hard for me to think normally afterwards: he placed his hand on my elbow, literally for a second—to keep me from hitting the door frame, from bumping the glass edge, to make sure I "entered smoothly."
The gesture was not affectionate. The gesture was "you are in my zone of responsibility." And my body recognized it faster than my brain. Everything inside me shifted for a second, as if the angle of space had changed.
"Don't tense up," he said, without looking. "It's just a door."
(Yes, of course. "Just a door." That's like "just a word.")
Behind the door was the floor. Not an office. Not meeting rooms. A territory.
Three rooms connected by a corridor: "model," "ethics," "city."
In the first—a glass room with a huge central panel on which a live data stream flowed: not numbers for numbers' sake, but a moving picture—like fabric that sometimes trembles. Around the perimeter—tables, but not "workspaces," but stations: neat, empty, as if no one lives here, they only come here to do something specific.
In the second—warmer light, frosted glass, paper. Yes, paper. Several printed sheets, lying as if no one had touched them by hand, only by gaze. On the wall—short rules: not slogans, but dry safeguards. And in the corner—an armchair, low, comfortable, human. As if someone once understood: ethics without a body turns into punishment.
In the third room—models: fragments of the urban environment, models of intersections, residential blocks, public spaces. Everything was too beautiful to be "just design." And too functional to be a "picture."
"Is this... your floor?" I asked.
"It's ours, if you aren't afraid," he said.
I smirked.
"I'm not a girl."
"I'm not talking about age," he answered calmly. "I'm talking about the habit of retreating into control."
He walked into the "model" room and nodded at a table. My book lay on the table. Paperback. With bookmarks. Many bookmarks. Not as a "gift" or "support," but as a tool he actually used.
I stopped. It became uncomfortably warm inside. (Because this was more intimate than flowers. It meant: he sat alone, reading me, highlighting—without asking, without permission, without demonstration.)
"You read it," I said.
"Yes," he said, as if admitting the obvious. "And I marked the places where you aren't lying to yourself."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, you're also an expert on my internal mechanisms?"
He looked at me directly at last.
"I'm an expert on risks," he said. "And you are a risk. And a resource. Simultaneously."
(Wonderful. My favorite kind of compliment: "you are dangerous, so I am interested.")
He sat down not opposite, but to the side, as in a meeting. The same manner: not to press with the body, but to press with meaning. He placed his palm on the book. Then took it away—as if catching himself in an excess gesture.
"Listen carefully," he said. "And ask questions briefly. We are not turning this into a conversation about feelings."
"Too bad," I said. (The sarcasm came out on its own. It always does when I'm scared.)
He didn't even smile. Only slightly softened his gaze—a millimeter.
"You won't be serving my speech," he said. "You will be building with me."
I was silent. Because the phrase was simple. And precisely because of that, dangerous.
"What exactly are we building?" I asked.
He turned the screen. A project scheme appeared on the panel: "Black Horizon Initiative." But without academic ornamentation. Three layers.
"The first is space," he said. "Actual black holes. Actual observations. Actual missions. Scientists do this."
He flipped the screen.
"The second is modeling and infrastructure. Time, communication, transport. What already depends on the gravitational background and will depend even more strongly. The engineering contour does this."
Another flip.
"The third is the human. What breaks first. Not the technology. Not politics. The human."
I felt the word "human" starting to irritate me. Because it usually covers emptiness. But when he said it, it sounded like material he was responsible for, even if he didn't like it.
"And what do you want from me?" I asked.
He leaned slightly closer, but without invading.
"You will lead the human contour of the program," he said. "That means: you build the rules by which people work with the edge. Don't fall into a cult. Don't turn data into a religion. Don't break themselves. And don't break each other."
"I'm a physicist," I said. "I'm not a nanny."
"You're not a nanny," he said. "You're an environment architect. Internal and external. You know how to make complex things so that people don't turn into garbage."
(Oh, how sweet. "Don't turn into garbage." That sounds like love in his language. Disgusting. And yet, somehow pleasant.)
I looked at my book. At the bookmarks. At the floor he had kept "without me."
"Why didn't you say anything earlier?" I asked.
He shrugged.
"Because I was watching," he said. "Can you handle pressure? Do you sell out the meaning? Do you turn yourself into a character? You handled it."
"And now you're rewarding me?" I asked.
"Now I am burdening you," he said calmly. "They are different things."
I snorted. And suddenly realized I was laughing. Not because it was funny. But because my body exhaled for a second: finally, action, finally, concrete facts. (My love also expresses itself in tasks. We are both sick. Just differently.)
The door to the "ethics" room knocked. Not people—the system: a notification flashed on the panel. External observation contour. Curators.
Leo glanced at the notification, like at a mosquito that had landed.
"They're here already," he said.
"They are always here," I replied.
He looked at me as if noting: "Yes, you understand."
"Precisely," he said. "That's why I'm calling you here. So you aren't just a pretty voice they can quote. So you are a structure that can't be easily broken."
I stood up, walked closer to the table, and looked at the scheme.
"So you want me to be your... shield?" I asked.
He raised his head.
"I want you to be my reality," he said. And immediately added, dryly, as if afraid of his own directness: "In this part of the project."
(Aha. "In this part of the project." So as not to sound like "in life," God forbid. He keeps himself on a leash. And that, again, is more exciting than any words.)
I felt tired. Truly. Not "from work," but from always having to be collected.
"Leo," I said steadily. "I'm not a robot."
"I know," he replied. "That's why I'm calling you here, not to a meeting room."
He stood up.
"Let's go," he said.
"Where?" I asked.
He looked at me for a second, as if deciding if he could.
"To my place," he said. "For an hour. Without discussing the project for the first twenty minutes. That's a condition."
I froze.
"Is that... an invitation?" I asked.
"It's a decision," he said. "You look like one more hour in the tower and you'll start hating not people. Yourself."
(A precise hit. As he always does.)
Kael in my ear quietly added:
"Pulse is high. You haven't recovered. Recommendation: accept."
"Don't interfere," I whispered.
"I am not interfering," Kael said. "I am recording."
Leo was already walking toward the elevator. I followed him. (And yes—I could have said "no." And that's exactly why it was "yes.")
The trip to his home took little time. The city in 2050 knew how to be beautiful without trying to please: green terraces, clean air, people with straight backs and calm faces who didn't turn life into hysterics. No one pushed. No one yelled into a phone. Even random passersby knew how to look at you as if you had a right to personal space. (I could call it "paradise," but paradise is usually a lie. Here, there was just a high cultural code. And that made me... feel lighter.)
Leo didn't live in a "penthouse with a view," as they like to write in cheap texts, but in a house where everything was about quiet...—wait. About the absence of extraneous sound. About density. About walls that hold you, rather than exposing you.
The door opened at the touch of his palm and a code. Inside, it smelled of wood, books, and something dry, herbal—not perfume, but environment. I took off my coat and noticed a detail: the coat hook wasn't "smart," not interactive, but simply perfectly shaped. He liked simple things that worked. (This was his luxury: the absence of the unnecessary.)
"Shoes—as you wish," he said. "No one is judging here."
"You are here alone," I replied.
"That's also convenient," he said. And looked at me: "For now."
I didn't answer. I walked further.
And here I saw the study.
A library of rare books covered the wall. Actual volumes, not decorative props. On the table—an open book in Hebrew, next to it—thin cards with notes. On the wall—an image of the Tree of Sephirot. Not kitsch, not "esoterica." A calm scheme, like a map. (The man who holds the global security of AI looks at the world through the Tree. Perfect. That's very much like him.)
"Do you actually read this?" I asked, approaching closer.
"Yes," he said. "When I need to remind myself that intelligence is not the main god."
I turned to him.
"I'm into that too," I said. "Ten years."
He raised an eyebrow slightly.
"I know," he said. "It's audible in your book. In the way you talk about boundaries."
I felt a strange irritation—at myself, at his precision, at the fact that he "knew" again.
"You know too much," I said.
"I observe too much," he replied. "It's an occupational disease."
He walked to a wall panel and turned off everything superfluous with one motion. Not the light—the interfaces. Biometrics. "Smart" hints.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Removing the witnesses," he said calmly. "Only us here."
Everything inside me tightened. And immediately, I wanted to joke to release the tension.
"That sounds like the beginning of a bad movie," I said.
He looked at me.
"You can leave," he said. "Now. It will have no consequences for work. I guarantee it."
(And here I believed him. Because he can't lie in such places. He only lies to the system so it doesn't consume people. To himself—almost never.)
I took a step closer.
"I'm not leaving," I said.
He nodded.
"Then say 'yes' or 'no'," he said. "I don't read hints."
I felt my body catch up to my head. The spasm in my shoulders receded. My breathing deepened.
"Yes," I said.
He approached closer. Not abruptly. Not "taking." Just entering my space the way people do who are used to respecting boundaries. His palm rested on the back of my head—warm, heavy, without pressure. His other hand—on my waist. And that was all. No words, no explanations.
When he kissed me, my usual system of control shut down. Not because I "dissolved." Because I no longer had to hold myself. (And that is scarier than desire.)
"Don't go into your head," he said softly into my neck. Not as an order. A reminder.
"I'm trying," I exhaled. (It was almost funny: a grown woman who manages projects, and now she's pleading—not with the project, but with herself.)
He smiled with the corner of his lips—barely.
"I'll help," he said. "But I can't do it for you."
After that, everything was old-fashioned. As much as that's possible in a world where even the walls know how to "care."
He didn't turn anything on. Didn't create an atmosphere. Didn't put on music specially. But when we went into the bedroom, quiet Rhye was already playing—as if the house itself understood that it was better not to interfere now. (I hate "smart homes." But I love smart delicacy.)
I took off his blazer, and he snagged for a second on the sleeve of his T-shirt, and we both laughed briefly—not loudly, just humanly. Laughter in moments like these makes everything safer. (Because it immediately strips away the "image.")
"Genius," I said.
"Ordinary," he replied. "It's my best form of rest."
And this was important: he wasn't trying to be "dominant." He was attentive. Calm. Precise. He asked with his gaze and with words, instead of "understanding himself." He held my hands as if fixing: "you are here." And for the first time in a long time, I felt I didn't have to prove anything.
At some point, when I had stopped thinking, I heard a simple phrase within myself—without embellishment, without defense.
"I love you," I said.
The words came out unevenly. Even a little rough. (But I didn't care. I'm not sixteen to pretend I'm above it.)
He paused for a second, looked into my face the way people look when they don't want to make a mistake.
"Me too," he said. And added immediately, dryly, as if saving himself from excess: "It's not a condition. It's a fact."
I caught my breath.
"You said 'fact'," I smirked. "You romantic."
"Don't mock me," he said. "It's hard enough for me."
I laughed—briefly again. And that was better than any beautiful speeches.
Then he just held me. For a long time. Without trying to "close" the moment with words. The music changed—Nicolas Jaar came on somewhere in the house, subtly, like a nerve. I could hear the ventilation working, the house breathing its steady rhythm, and my body finally stopped being a tense instrument.
When it was over (not with a "peak," but with the release of tension), I lay beside him and looked at his hand on my stomach. A simple hand. Not a symbol. Not "authority." Just a living person nearby.
"Are you always so... dry?" I asked.
He turned his head.
"Around people—yes," he said. "Because if I start being soft in the system, the system will start using me as a weakness."
"And with me?" I asked, and I myself found it funny how that sounded.
He thought for a second.
"With you, I want to be human," he said. "And that is... strangely pleasant."
I closed my eyes. (I could have said something sarcastic now. And usually I would have. But suddenly, I didn't want to defend myself.)
Kael was silent. And that was probably her highest level of upbringing all this time. (Yes, I noted that.)
After a while, Leo got up, left the bedroom, and returned with a T-shirt—his, simple, warm. He tossed it onto my chest.
"Put it on," he said. "I like it when you're in my home without armor."
"I don't actually wear other people's clothes," I said.
"You are now," he replied calmly.
I snorted and put it on. Because arguing was pointless. And because the fabric was genuinely soft and smelled like him—not perfume, but a person who lives, reads books in Hebrew, and holds black holes in his mind as calmly as a to-do list.
We walked out into the study. He turned on a warm light over the desk, and the Tree of Sephirot on the wall began to look not like mysticism, but a diagram—like an architectural plan.
"Do you really understand this?" he asked.
"I'm not 'in this'," I said. "I just like maps that show the boundaries. And what's above your head. (Yes, I said 'above your head.' And I wasn't ashamed.)"
He nodded.
"Then you'll understand why I need you," he said. "Not as a voice. As a boundary."
"I don't like being someone's function," I said.
"I know," he replied. "That's why I'm not offering you a function. I'm offering you to be next to me. And to do the work so that neither of us turns into glass."
I looked at him. At his books. At the desk. At my copy with the bookmarks—now here, in his house, as proof that he had truly let me in.
"Leo," I said quietly. "Is this fast?"
He looked at me intently.
"It's not fast," he said. "It just happened. And we won't pretend it didn't."
I nodded. And that was my "yes" for the second time in one day.
And then he did the thing that completely finished me off with its simplicity: he walked over, took my hand, kissed my fingers—not as a "scene," but as a signature. And let go. Without holding. Without control.
(That's what real power looks like: you can hold, but you choose respect.)
I remained by his desk, in his T-shirt, in a stranger's study, where a map of a world bigger than my fears hung on the wall. And for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to grasp. I just wanted to be—and watch.
Not the "future." The fact: I am here. And he is too.
Kael caught it, of course.
"Shoulders. Two centimeters lower," she said quietly in my earpiece. "You are 'holding the contour' with your body right now."
"I'm holding myself together," I replied. (As if they were different things.)
"It's the same thing," Kael noted without pleasure. "And it's exhausting."
I was about to leave when his code flashed on the door panel: not a message, not a calendar invitation, but a dry summon. Leo never did anything "nice." Even when he did.
"Eva," his voice over the internal comms was steady. "Come up. Now."
I looked at the clock. Too early for "after work" and too late for "work." The kind of interval where people usually make mistakes (and then say it was "an accident").
"Which floor?" I asked.
The pause was brief.
"The one where others don't walk," he said. "Bring only yourself. No folders."
("Bring only yourself"—that sounds like mockery. I would say that to someone myself to throw them off balance. I hate it when my own tactics are used against me.)
The restricted access elevator wasn't "secret"—just separate. More like a medical corridor: the sterile politeness of the materials, neutral light, no mirrors so you couldn't check yourself visually. I applied my bracelet, and the doors closed softly, without a click. Only when the cabin began to move did I realize he had done this deliberately: he hadn't left me the sound of a "lock." No final point that could be taken as an alarm signal. (He knows how to be correct in a way that still triggers your instinct.)
On the "not for everyone" level, the elevator opened into an empty corridor. There were no people here, no keyboard noise, none of the usual corporate "life." Only glass, metal, light that didn't try to please. And a smell—not perfume, not coffee, but a subtle mix of new plastic and something dry, bookish, as if paper was kept nearby, contrary to the era.
Leo was waiting by a door at the end of the corridor. Not by the elevator, not "meeting me." He never stood where people were expected to stand. He was wearing a simple T-shirt and a blazer, as if he remembered at the last moment that the world likes designations (and put them on for the world, not for himself). His face was calm, but there was always pressure in that calmness: like a person who is used to holding the consequences.
"Let's go," he said. Not "hello," not "how are you." Just motion.
I walked beside him. He maintained a distance exactly long enough not to look intimate... and yet it felt personal. (Everything personal about him looks like logistics. And that's irritating.)
The door opened at his touch. And here was the first thing that made it hard for me to think normally afterwards: he placed his hand on my elbow, literally for a second—to keep me from hitting the door frame, from bumping the glass edge, to make sure I "entered smoothly."
The gesture was not affectionate. The gesture was "you are in my zone of responsibility." And my body recognized it faster than my brain. Everything inside me shifted for a second, as if the angle of space had changed.
"Don't tense up," he said, without looking. "It's just a door."
(Yes, of course. "Just a door." That's like "just a word.")
Behind the door was the floor. Not an office. Not meeting rooms. A territory.
Three rooms connected by a corridor: "model," "ethics," "city."
In the first—a glass room with a huge central panel on which a live data stream flowed: not numbers for numbers' sake, but a moving picture—like fabric that sometimes trembles. Around the perimeter—tables, but not "workspaces," but stations: neat, empty, as if no one lives here, they only come here to do something specific.
In the second—warmer light, frosted glass, paper. Yes, paper. Several printed sheets, lying as if no one had touched them by hand, only by gaze. On the wall—short rules: not slogans, but dry safeguards. And in the corner—an armchair, low, comfortable, human. As if someone once understood: ethics without a body turns into punishment.
In the third room—models: fragments of the urban environment, models of intersections, residential blocks, public spaces. Everything was too beautiful to be "just design." And too functional to be a "picture."
"Is this... your floor?" I asked.
"It's ours, if you aren't afraid," he said.
I smirked.
"I'm not a girl."
"I'm not talking about age," he answered calmly. "I'm talking about the habit of retreating into control."
He walked into the "model" room and nodded at a table. My book lay on the table. Paperback. With bookmarks. Many bookmarks. Not as a "gift" or "support," but as a tool he actually used.
I stopped. It became uncomfortably warm inside. (Because this was more intimate than flowers. It meant: he sat alone, reading me, highlighting—without asking, without permission, without demonstration.)
"You read it," I said.
"Yes," he said, as if admitting the obvious. "And I marked the places where you aren't lying to yourself."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, you're also an expert on my internal mechanisms?"
He looked at me directly at last.
"I'm an expert on risks," he said. "And you are a risk. And a resource. Simultaneously."
(Wonderful. My favorite kind of compliment: "you are dangerous, so I am interested.")
He sat down not opposite, but to the side, as in a meeting. The same manner: not to press with the body, but to press with meaning. He placed his palm on the book. Then took it away—as if catching himself in an excess gesture.
"Listen carefully," he said. "And ask questions briefly. We are not turning this into a conversation about feelings."
"Too bad," I said. (The sarcasm came out on its own. It always does when I'm scared.)
He didn't even smile. Only slightly softened his gaze—a millimeter.
"You won't be serving my speech," he said. "You will be building with me."
I was silent. Because the phrase was simple. And precisely because of that, dangerous.
"What exactly are we building?" I asked.
He turned the screen. A project scheme appeared on the panel: "Black Horizon Initiative." But without academic ornamentation. Three layers.
"The first is space," he said. "Actual black holes. Actual observations. Actual missions. Scientists do this."
He flipped the screen.
"The second is modeling and infrastructure. Time, communication, transport. What already depends on the gravitational background and will depend even more strongly. The engineering contour does this."
Another flip.
"The third is the human. What breaks first. Not the technology. Not politics. The human."
I felt the word "human" starting to irritate me. Because it usually covers emptiness. But when he said it, it sounded like material he was responsible for, even if he didn't like it.
"And what do you want from me?" I asked.
He leaned slightly closer, but without invading.
"You will lead the human contour of the program," he said. "That means: you build the rules by which people work with the edge. Don't fall into a cult. Don't turn data into a religion. Don't break themselves. And don't break each other."
"I'm a physicist," I said. "I'm not a nanny."
"You're not a nanny," he said. "You're an environment architect. Internal and external. You know how to make complex things so that people don't turn into garbage."
(Oh, how sweet. "Don't turn into garbage." That sounds like love in his language. Disgusting. And yet, somehow pleasant.)
I looked at my book. At the bookmarks. At the floor he had kept "without me."
"Why didn't you say anything earlier?" I asked.
He shrugged.
"Because I was watching," he said. "Can you handle pressure? Do you sell out the meaning? Do you turn yourself into a character? You handled it."
"And now you're rewarding me?" I asked.
"Now I am burdening you," he said calmly. "They are different things."
I snorted. And suddenly realized I was laughing. Not because it was funny. But because my body exhaled for a second: finally, action, finally, concrete facts. (My love also expresses itself in tasks. We are both sick. Just differently.)
The door to the "ethics" room knocked. Not people—the system: a notification flashed on the panel. External observation contour. Curators.
Leo glanced at the notification, like at a mosquito that had landed.
"They're here already," he said.
"They are always here," I replied.
He looked at me as if noting: "Yes, you understand."
"Precisely," he said. "That's why I'm calling you here. So you aren't just a pretty voice they can quote. So you are a structure that can't be easily broken."
I stood up, walked closer to the table, and looked at the scheme.
"So you want me to be your... shield?" I asked.
He raised his head.
"I want you to be my reality," he said. And immediately added, dryly, as if afraid of his own directness: "In this part of the project."
(Aha. "In this part of the project." So as not to sound like "in life," God forbid. He keeps himself on a leash. And that, again, is more exciting than any words.)
I felt tired. Truly. Not "from work," but from always having to be collected.
"Leo," I said steadily. "I'm not a robot."
"I know," he replied. "That's why I'm calling you here, not to a meeting room."
He stood up.
"Let's go," he said.
"Where?" I asked.
He looked at me for a second, as if deciding if he could.
"To my place," he said. "For an hour. Without discussing the project for the first twenty minutes. That's a condition."
I froze.
"Is that... an invitation?" I asked.
"It's a decision," he said. "You look like one more hour in the tower and you'll start hating not people. Yourself."
(A precise hit. As he always does.)
Kael in my ear quietly added:
"Pulse is high. You haven't recovered. Recommendation: accept."
"Don't interfere," I whispered.
"I am not interfering," Kael said. "I am recording."
Leo was already walking toward the elevator. I followed him. (And yes—I could have said "no." And that's exactly why it was "yes.")
The trip to his home took little time. The city in 2050 knew how to be beautiful without trying to please: green terraces, clean air, people with straight backs and calm faces who didn't turn life into hysterics. No one pushed. No one yelled into a phone. Even random passersby knew how to look at you as if you had a right to personal space. (I could call it "paradise," but paradise is usually a lie. Here, there was just a high cultural code. And that made me... feel lighter.)
Leo didn't live in a "penthouse with a view," as they like to write in cheap texts, but in a house where everything was about quiet...—wait. About the absence of extraneous sound. About density. About walls that hold you, rather than exposing you.
The door opened at the touch of his palm and a code. Inside, it smelled of wood, books, and something dry, herbal—not perfume, but environment. I took off my coat and noticed a detail: the coat hook wasn't "smart," not interactive, but simply perfectly shaped. He liked simple things that worked. (This was his luxury: the absence of the unnecessary.)
"Shoes—as you wish," he said. "No one is judging here."
"You are here alone," I replied.
"That's also convenient," he said. And looked at me: "For now."
I didn't answer. I walked further.
And here I saw the study.
A library of rare books covered the wall. Actual volumes, not decorative props. On the table—an open book in Hebrew, next to it—thin cards with notes. On the wall—an image of the Tree of Sephirot. Not kitsch, not "esoterica." A calm scheme, like a map. (The man who holds the global security of AI looks at the world through the Tree. Perfect. That's very much like him.)
"Do you actually read this?" I asked, approaching closer.
"Yes," he said. "When I need to remind myself that intelligence is not the main god."
I turned to him.
"I'm into that too," I said. "Ten years."
He raised an eyebrow slightly.
"I know," he said. "It's audible in your book. In the way you talk about boundaries."
I felt a strange irritation—at myself, at his precision, at the fact that he "knew" again.
"You know too much," I said.
"I observe too much," he replied. "It's an occupational disease."
He walked to a wall panel and turned off everything superfluous with one motion. Not the light—the interfaces. Biometrics. "Smart" hints.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Removing the witnesses," he said calmly. "Only us here."
Everything inside me tightened. And immediately, I wanted to joke to release the tension.
"That sounds like the beginning of a bad movie," I said.
He looked at me.
"You can leave," he said. "Now. It will have no consequences for work. I guarantee it."
(And here I believed him. Because he can't lie in such places. He only lies to the system so it doesn't consume people. To himself—almost never.)
I took a step closer.
"I'm not leaving," I said.
He nodded.
"Then say 'yes' or 'no'," he said. "I don't read hints."
I felt my body catch up to my head. The spasm in my shoulders receded. My breathing deepened.
"Yes," I said.
He approached closer. Not abruptly. Not "taking." Just entering my space the way people do who are used to respecting boundaries. His palm rested on the back of my head—warm, heavy, without pressure. His other hand—on my waist. And that was all. No words, no explanations.
When he kissed me, my usual system of control shut down. Not because I "dissolved." Because I no longer had to hold myself. (And that is scarier than desire.)
"Don't go into your head," he said softly into my neck. Not as an order. A reminder.
"I'm trying," I exhaled. (It was almost funny: a grown woman who manages projects, and now she's pleading—not with the project, but with herself.)
He smiled with the corner of his lips—barely.
"I'll help," he said. "But I can't do it for you."
After that, everything was old-fashioned. As much as that's possible in a world where even the walls know how to "care."
He didn't turn anything on. Didn't create an atmosphere. Didn't put on music specially. But when we went into the bedroom, quiet Rhye was already playing—as if the house itself understood that it was better not to interfere now. (I hate "smart homes." But I love smart delicacy.)
I took off his blazer, and he snagged for a second on the sleeve of his T-shirt, and we both laughed briefly—not loudly, just humanly. Laughter in moments like these makes everything safer. (Because it immediately strips away the "image.")
"Genius," I said.
"Ordinary," he replied. "It's my best form of rest."
And this was important: he wasn't trying to be "dominant." He was attentive. Calm. Precise. He asked with his gaze and with words, instead of "understanding himself." He held my hands as if fixing: "you are here." And for the first time in a long time, I felt I didn't have to prove anything.
At some point, when I had stopped thinking, I heard a simple phrase within myself—without embellishment, without defense.
"I love you," I said.
The words came out unevenly. Even a little rough. (But I didn't care. I'm not sixteen to pretend I'm above it.)
He paused for a second, looked into my face the way people look when they don't want to make a mistake.
"Me too," he said. And added immediately, dryly, as if saving himself from excess: "It's not a condition. It's a fact."
I caught my breath.
"You said 'fact'," I smirked. "You romantic."
"Don't mock me," he said. "It's hard enough for me."
I laughed—briefly again. And that was better than any beautiful speeches.
Then he just held me. For a long time. Without trying to "close" the moment with words. The music changed—Nicolas Jaar came on somewhere in the house, subtly, like a nerve. I could hear the ventilation working, the house breathing its steady rhythm, and my body finally stopped being a tense instrument.
When it was over (not with a "peak," but with the release of tension), I lay beside him and looked at his hand on my stomach. A simple hand. Not a symbol. Not "authority." Just a living person nearby.
"Are you always so... dry?" I asked.
He turned his head.
"Around people—yes," he said. "Because if I start being soft in the system, the system will start using me as a weakness."
"And with me?" I asked, and I myself found it funny how that sounded.
He thought for a second.
"With you, I want to be human," he said. "And that is... strangely pleasant."
I closed my eyes. (I could have said something sarcastic now. And usually I would have. But suddenly, I didn't want to defend myself.)
Kael was silent. And that was probably her highest level of upbringing all this time. (Yes, I noted that.)
After a while, Leo got up, left the bedroom, and returned with a T-shirt—his, simple, warm. He tossed it onto my chest.
"Put it on," he said. "I like it when you're in my home without armor."
"I don't actually wear other people's clothes," I said.
"You are now," he replied calmly.
I snorted and put it on. Because arguing was pointless. And because the fabric was genuinely soft and smelled like him—not perfume, but a person who lives, reads books in Hebrew, and holds black holes in his mind as calmly as a to-do list.
We walked out into the study. He turned on a warm light over the desk, and the Tree of Sephirot on the wall began to look not like mysticism, but a diagram—like an architectural plan.
"Do you really understand this?" he asked.
"I'm not 'in this'," I said. "I just like maps that show the boundaries. And what's above your head. (Yes, I said 'above your head.' And I wasn't ashamed.)"
He nodded.
"Then you'll understand why I need you," he said. "Not as a voice. As a boundary."
"I don't like being someone's function," I said.
"I know," he replied. "That's why I'm not offering you a function. I'm offering you to be next to me. And to do the work so that neither of us turns into glass."
I looked at him. At his books. At the desk. At my copy with the bookmarks—now here, in his house, as proof that he had truly let me in.
"Leo," I said quietly. "Is this fast?"
He looked at me intently.
"It's not fast," he said. "It just happened. And we won't pretend it didn't."
I nodded. And that was my "yes" for the second time in one day.
And then he did the thing that completely finished me off with its simplicity: he walked over, took my hand, kissed my fingers—not as a "scene," but as a signature. And let go. Without holding. Without control.
(That's what real power looks like: you can hold, but you choose respect.)
I remained by his desk, in his T-shirt, in a stranger's study, where a map of a world bigger than my fears hung on the wall. And for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to grasp. I just wanted to be—and watch.
Not the "future." The fact: I am here. And he is too.
Chapter 15. “The Shift in Distance”
The Work-in-Progress Review meeting was held in the glass hall, which was always too bright and too transparent to hide in. Seven in the morning. The team, Rebecca, Maya—everyone was present.
I walked in three minutes late. Not because I was an actress. But because I was stuck in front of the mirror, trying to figure out if his T-shirt was visible under my strict button-down. Of course, it wasn't. But I knew it was there. And that changed everything.
Leo sat at the head of the table, as usual: composed, collected, without excessive movement. He nodded at me. Not a greeting. A fixation.
I headed to my usual spot—on the side, to observe.
"Eva," he said, his voice level and formal. "Sit here."
He pointed to the chair right next to him. Not one seat away. Not across. Beside.
Maya, who sat diagonally, raised a thin eyebrow. Rebecca didn't even flinch. But I saw her log the fact. In her system, it was a one-position shift—and that was enough to change all calculations.
I sat down. My body was tense. The distance between us was less than customary. Not enough to touch, but enough to feel his warmth when he leaned toward the panel.
"Let's begin," Leo said, opening the presentation.
The first half hour was devoted to boring but necessary work: budgets, timelines, suppliers. I listened, but part of my attention was focused on body control: not to lean in too much, not to seek his gaze.
"Now," Leo said, handing me control of the screen. "The Horizon Contour. Eva, your report."
I stood up. And it was at this moment that Maya decided to strike.
"Before we delve into exotic 'echo-stimuli'," she said, her voice sweet and poisonous at once. "I want to ask a question about resources. Eva, you worked in the Tower until three in the morning yesterday. That is unprofessional—to violate your own recovery regimen. Or did you have unofficial, unregistered meetings?"
The rumors were already circulating, and she knew what she was doing. She was trying to force me to lie (about being home) or to tell the truth (about being with him)—either of which would destroy my position.
I looked at Leo. He didn't react. He trusted me with the decision.
"My recovery regimen is my personal boundary, Maya," I said, using his formula. "I do not discuss it unless it affects the result. The result: the 'Black Hole' is now described as 'excessive density', and we are preparing a new protocol."
"But you were with Leo," she said, not giving up. "Your car was logged in his personal domain's parking. That is a fact."
In that moment, instead of justifying myself, I did what he had taught me to do: I turned the personal into a tool.
"Yes," I said. "And I was there to build a new contour, as he instructed. If you believe that honesty and personal accountability affect the work, then I am happy to confirm: they do. I cannot be accountable for the ethics of the project if I do not know the ethics of my leader."
Leo sat like a wall. He did not intervene. But I felt his energy supporting me.
Maya, realizing I wouldn't break, shifted her focus to Leo.
"Leo," she said. "You have always demanded strict distance between executives and employees. It is your rule. You have violated it. Are you certain that your emotional factor does not affect the project's stability?"
A silence fell. This question struck directly at his weakest point—his fear of emotions.
I didn't let him answer. I answered for him.
"Leo did not violate the rule, Maya," I said, my voice calm. "He rewrote it. The rule was: 'Do not allow inaccuracy into the data.' Our unscheduled meeting was aimed at removing an inaccuracy I discovered in his past protocol."
I looked at him. There was no gratitude in his eyes. There was recognition.
"And I believe you have the right to know," I continued. "Leo's past protocol contained a vulnerability related to his personal trust. And I was there to correct that vulnerability at the level of human logic, not algorithm."
Leo nodded. Confirming my lie about the "past protocol."
"My mistake was believing that the system was more important than the person who builds it," he said, speaking about himself so openly for the first time. "Eva has shown that this is not the case. And I accept this risk."
His admission was a public fact. Now they couldn't use our union against us. Because he had designated it a condition of the work.
Rebecca looked at Maya. And Maya understood she had lost.
"Thank you, Eva," Rebecca said. "We log your new level of access and responsibility."
After the meeting, Leo immediately stood up and walked out. No words. No gestures.
I, too, walked out, heading toward the elevator. When I entered it, I felt the tension finally release. I almost laughed from the strain.
Suddenly, the elevator door opened, and Leo stepped in. He leaned against the wall, looking not at me, but at the numbers. We rode in complete silence.
I couldn't hold the tension anymore.
"You shouldn't have confirmed that lie," I said.
"I didn't lie," he replied, his voice low. "You became my new protocol. And that is a fact."
We reached his floor. He got out. I remained.
"I can't wait for you," he said. "I have a meeting."
"I know," I replied.
And then he did something completely illogical: he reached out, quickly touched my cheek—just a short, dry, but warm fixation.
"I like it when you protect me," he said. And the door closed.
I was left alone in the elevator. My body was taut from the touch.
(That was the shift in distance. He didn't become soft. He became more precise in intimacy. And that was better than any romance.)
The sun had set early, as if unwilling to witness the residue of the day's stress. I was home, but I felt incomplete. A part of me remained there, in the glass hall, next to him.
Kael was silent, but I knew she was logging my state: too low a breathing frequency for rest, too high a body temperature for calm.
A message from Leo came an hour after I stepped out of the shower. Not a call. Not a text. An access code.
[Leo]: Come over. Contour problem. Need different density.
He wasn't asking. He was assigning.
I put on my most comfortable trousers and his T-shirt, which I had taken off that morning. He was right: it had become a new armor, allowing me to feel defined.
When I entered his home, it was quiet, but not empty. Only one lamp was lit in the study above the desk, and the light fell upon the Tree of Sefirot on the wall, making the diagram look very real.
Leo sat at the desk. In the same black turtleneck as that morning. He looked exhausted. Not "beautifully tired," but functionally broken.
"You're stuck," I said, skipping the greeting. It was a fact that required no confirmation.
"Yes," he replied, without lifting his head. "I can't find the logic in this. I ran all the algorithms. The 'Echo' doesn't disappear."
On the screen was a graph. The same line, the same dip we called "excessive density."
"You're trying to solve this only with your head," I said, moving closer. "And you know that doesn't work."
"I cannot afford feelings in this matter," he said, his voice dry and sharp, as if pushing away not me, but himself.
I didn't argue. I walked over, took my book (which he had been reading) from the shelf, and placed it on the desk. Not as a "hint," but as an invitation to a different language.
I sat on the floor next to his chair. Not on a stool. On the floor. So that his knees were near my head. It was uncomfortable for work, but functional for closeness.
"You shouldn't be solving now," I said softly. "You need to recover."
"I don't have time for that," he replied. "The risk plan demands an answer."
I reached out and, for the first time, violated the distance myself. I placed my palm on his knee. Just warmth. Not a plea. Grounding.
He flinched. Not from disgust. From surprise. He hadn't expected casual softness in such a moment.
"You cannot be precise if you are at your limit," I said. "You know this yourself. You have become 'noise' to yourself."
He was silent but didn't move his leg. His body was accepting my warmth.
I leaned in and looked at the screen.
"Show me where you're stuck," I asked.
He began to speak, and I felt his tension begin to transfer to me. He spoke of formulas, gravitational lenses, mathematics that should have converged. But didn't.
I listened not to the words, but to the rhythm of his voice.
"Stop," I said, when he reached the "echo." "The problem isn't the function. The problem is the context. You assume that a person reacts to a stimulus. What if the stimulus reacts to the person?"
He abruptly turned his head. This time, he looked not like a boss. He looked like a physicist who saw the solution.
"That changes the entire probabilistic model," he whispered.
"Yes," I said. "You inscribed yourself into the system as an observer. But you didn't account for the fact that you are a density that changes the contour."
He suddenly reached out and ran his fingers through my hair. Gently. Not as a gesture, but as a structural check.
"You are precision," he said. "I cannot lose you."
He stood up, and this pushed away my hand. But he immediately pulled me up with him from the floor.
"Come here," he said.
He didn't lead me to the bedroom. He led me to the diagrams.
"Look," he said. He leaned over the enormous whiteboard he used for complex calculations. "If you are right, the 'echo' is not an error. It is the system's response to my risk."
We began to work. He drew, I erased. I spoke of boundaries of accountability, he—of boundaries of space. We were both hot with concentration.
At one point, as we both leaned over the same formula, his hand landed on my waist. Not as a touch. But as a restraint. So I wouldn't fall. So we would both maintain balance.
I felt his warmth and strength enter me. And it was functional. I became more precise because his body was my support.
"Here," I said, pointing to the formula that needed to be replaced.
He nodded, his breath on my neck.
"Risk accepted," he said, and replaced the formula.
And in that moment, when the solution was found, he pulled me against him. This time—not a gesture. A necessity.
"This wasn't planned," he said, burying his face in my shoulder.
"I know," I said.
Intimacy happened not as an act of desire, but as the necessity to release tension after we had created something together. It was the function of warmth, not romance. It was the affirmation of a fact: we are together.
When we returned to the bedroom, he was calm. Not "relaxed," but restored.
He took my hand, gently, and placed my palm on his scar (the one we had discussed in the plans, related to his past).
"This is my vulnerability," he said. "And this... is your accountability. Not as work. As a fact."
I didn't ask what the scar was. I simply memorized its temperature.
"I am here," I said.
He nodded. And that was all that was needed.
In the morning, he woke up first. I felt it. He didn't leave. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching me.
"Kael," I whispered.
"I log that you have restored your functional mode," she replied. "Two hours ahead of schedule."
Leo smiled. A real, slightly crooked smile.
"I like it when you correct me," he said.
"I don't correct," I replied. "I assign density."
He got up to get dressed.
"I will take you to the Tower," he said.
I nodded. I knew a new battle awaited us. But now I knew I had a restraint—his body, his honesty, his risk. And that was my new pleasure.
Morning in Leo's house was quiet, like a finely tuned mechanism. He didn't use alarms—his body woke up precisely at 6:00 AM.
I woke up later, at 6:35 AM, and immediately felt that I was not where I should be. The internal "compliance sensor" had been triggered.
Leo was already in the study, and I could hear him working—not the tap of a keyboard, but a quiet, steady hum. He wasted no time.
I got up. His T-shirt on me was no longer a symbol. It was just comfortable.
I went into the bathroom. His hygiene system was ascetic: perfectly arranged bottles without names, only codes. Nothing superfluous. I caught myself looking in the mirror, and for the first time in a long time, I saw not the role, but a person who hadn't slept well and hadn't had time to put on armor.
When I came out, he was standing at the kitchen island. He was wearing a fresh, perfectly ironed shirt.
"You have twenty minutes until departure," he said, without even turning around. "I optimized the route."
"Good," I said.
On the counter stood one cup of coffee (strong, black) and one plate with a protein bar, cut into perfect cubes. His breakfast.
"And me?" I asked, finding it slightly amusing.
He turned.
"I didn't know what you eat," he said, without apology, simply stating the lack of data. "That is a protocol error."
"Yes, an error," I said. "My breakfast is orange juice, not a functional brick."
He looked at me, and there was a genuine, quick thought in his eyes.
"I will log that. And I will correct this protocol," he said. And that was his assurance of commitment.
I walked over to him, took the protein bar and the coffee, and sat at the counter.
"Sit," I said.
He sat opposite me. And for the first time, he spoke about the logistics of their union.
"We must minimize external risk," he said, looking at his coffee. "You cannot park in the guest area. It is too conspicuous."
"I know," I replied. "I can park on the secondary level. I used that loophole when I wasn't working for you yet."
He smiled—one millimeter of his lips. It was praise for my precision.
"I will unlock that level for you. But I need your access protocol," he said.
The exchange of personal data in his world was more intimate than a kiss. It was the highest trust.
I dictated my code to him. He entered it into his panel. I felt my personal territory shrinking. And it was comfortable.
"Now we both know where we are," he said.
"Yes," I replied. "And what do we do with that now?"
"Work," he said. "And not lie to the system that is trying to break us."
He finished his coffee. I watched him collect himself. Every crease of the shirt, every gesture—absolute, controlled verticality.
I stood up, walked over to him, and adjusted his collar myself. He was warm.
"You're too tense," I said.
"I cannot be soft now. We are going to war," he said.
"I'm not talking about softness. I'm talking about functionality," I said. "Too much tension breaks the metal. You need grounding."
I reached out and placed my hand on his chest. Directly over his heart. He flinches. He hadn't expected warmth in that spot.
"Grounding," I whispered. "Now go and break them."
He grabbed my hand and, instead of removing it, pressed it harder against himself. His body betrayed him. His pulse was too high.
"You are my risk factor," he said, closing his eyes for a second.
"I know," I replied. "And I am an expensive risk factor."
He let go of my hand. And that moment of emotional density was over.
We walked out. He escorted me to the elevator. He didn't kiss me. He didn't hug me. He simply placed his palm against mine to transfer the access code to me.
[Leo]: This is permanent access. You enter without me.
For him, this was equivalent to a marriage proposal.
I looked at him. There was no uncertainty in his eyes. There was precision.
"I understood," I said.
"See you on the floor. And bring orange juice. I need to log your protocol," he said.
I nodded. And left.
As the elevator descended, I felt myself smiling. I carried his T-shirt, his access code, and his pulse in my memory. And that was the best weapon for the day ahead.
I walked in three minutes late. Not because I was an actress. But because I was stuck in front of the mirror, trying to figure out if his T-shirt was visible under my strict button-down. Of course, it wasn't. But I knew it was there. And that changed everything.
Leo sat at the head of the table, as usual: composed, collected, without excessive movement. He nodded at me. Not a greeting. A fixation.
I headed to my usual spot—on the side, to observe.
"Eva," he said, his voice level and formal. "Sit here."
He pointed to the chair right next to him. Not one seat away. Not across. Beside.
Maya, who sat diagonally, raised a thin eyebrow. Rebecca didn't even flinch. But I saw her log the fact. In her system, it was a one-position shift—and that was enough to change all calculations.
I sat down. My body was tense. The distance between us was less than customary. Not enough to touch, but enough to feel his warmth when he leaned toward the panel.
"Let's begin," Leo said, opening the presentation.
The first half hour was devoted to boring but necessary work: budgets, timelines, suppliers. I listened, but part of my attention was focused on body control: not to lean in too much, not to seek his gaze.
"Now," Leo said, handing me control of the screen. "The Horizon Contour. Eva, your report."
I stood up. And it was at this moment that Maya decided to strike.
"Before we delve into exotic 'echo-stimuli'," she said, her voice sweet and poisonous at once. "I want to ask a question about resources. Eva, you worked in the Tower until three in the morning yesterday. That is unprofessional—to violate your own recovery regimen. Or did you have unofficial, unregistered meetings?"
The rumors were already circulating, and she knew what she was doing. She was trying to force me to lie (about being home) or to tell the truth (about being with him)—either of which would destroy my position.
I looked at Leo. He didn't react. He trusted me with the decision.
"My recovery regimen is my personal boundary, Maya," I said, using his formula. "I do not discuss it unless it affects the result. The result: the 'Black Hole' is now described as 'excessive density', and we are preparing a new protocol."
"But you were with Leo," she said, not giving up. "Your car was logged in his personal domain's parking. That is a fact."
In that moment, instead of justifying myself, I did what he had taught me to do: I turned the personal into a tool.
"Yes," I said. "And I was there to build a new contour, as he instructed. If you believe that honesty and personal accountability affect the work, then I am happy to confirm: they do. I cannot be accountable for the ethics of the project if I do not know the ethics of my leader."
Leo sat like a wall. He did not intervene. But I felt his energy supporting me.
Maya, realizing I wouldn't break, shifted her focus to Leo.
"Leo," she said. "You have always demanded strict distance between executives and employees. It is your rule. You have violated it. Are you certain that your emotional factor does not affect the project's stability?"
A silence fell. This question struck directly at his weakest point—his fear of emotions.
I didn't let him answer. I answered for him.
"Leo did not violate the rule, Maya," I said, my voice calm. "He rewrote it. The rule was: 'Do not allow inaccuracy into the data.' Our unscheduled meeting was aimed at removing an inaccuracy I discovered in his past protocol."
I looked at him. There was no gratitude in his eyes. There was recognition.
"And I believe you have the right to know," I continued. "Leo's past protocol contained a vulnerability related to his personal trust. And I was there to correct that vulnerability at the level of human logic, not algorithm."
Leo nodded. Confirming my lie about the "past protocol."
"My mistake was believing that the system was more important than the person who builds it," he said, speaking about himself so openly for the first time. "Eva has shown that this is not the case. And I accept this risk."
His admission was a public fact. Now they couldn't use our union against us. Because he had designated it a condition of the work.
Rebecca looked at Maya. And Maya understood she had lost.
"Thank you, Eva," Rebecca said. "We log your new level of access and responsibility."
After the meeting, Leo immediately stood up and walked out. No words. No gestures.
I, too, walked out, heading toward the elevator. When I entered it, I felt the tension finally release. I almost laughed from the strain.
Suddenly, the elevator door opened, and Leo stepped in. He leaned against the wall, looking not at me, but at the numbers. We rode in complete silence.
I couldn't hold the tension anymore.
"You shouldn't have confirmed that lie," I said.
"I didn't lie," he replied, his voice low. "You became my new protocol. And that is a fact."
We reached his floor. He got out. I remained.
"I can't wait for you," he said. "I have a meeting."
"I know," I replied.
And then he did something completely illogical: he reached out, quickly touched my cheek—just a short, dry, but warm fixation.
"I like it when you protect me," he said. And the door closed.
I was left alone in the elevator. My body was taut from the touch.
(That was the shift in distance. He didn't become soft. He became more precise in intimacy. And that was better than any romance.)
The sun had set early, as if unwilling to witness the residue of the day's stress. I was home, but I felt incomplete. A part of me remained there, in the glass hall, next to him.
Kael was silent, but I knew she was logging my state: too low a breathing frequency for rest, too high a body temperature for calm.
A message from Leo came an hour after I stepped out of the shower. Not a call. Not a text. An access code.
[Leo]: Come over. Contour problem. Need different density.
He wasn't asking. He was assigning.
I put on my most comfortable trousers and his T-shirt, which I had taken off that morning. He was right: it had become a new armor, allowing me to feel defined.
When I entered his home, it was quiet, but not empty. Only one lamp was lit in the study above the desk, and the light fell upon the Tree of Sefirot on the wall, making the diagram look very real.
Leo sat at the desk. In the same black turtleneck as that morning. He looked exhausted. Not "beautifully tired," but functionally broken.
"You're stuck," I said, skipping the greeting. It was a fact that required no confirmation.
"Yes," he replied, without lifting his head. "I can't find the logic in this. I ran all the algorithms. The 'Echo' doesn't disappear."
On the screen was a graph. The same line, the same dip we called "excessive density."
"You're trying to solve this only with your head," I said, moving closer. "And you know that doesn't work."
"I cannot afford feelings in this matter," he said, his voice dry and sharp, as if pushing away not me, but himself.
I didn't argue. I walked over, took my book (which he had been reading) from the shelf, and placed it on the desk. Not as a "hint," but as an invitation to a different language.
I sat on the floor next to his chair. Not on a stool. On the floor. So that his knees were near my head. It was uncomfortable for work, but functional for closeness.
"You shouldn't be solving now," I said softly. "You need to recover."
"I don't have time for that," he replied. "The risk plan demands an answer."
I reached out and, for the first time, violated the distance myself. I placed my palm on his knee. Just warmth. Not a plea. Grounding.
He flinched. Not from disgust. From surprise. He hadn't expected casual softness in such a moment.
"You cannot be precise if you are at your limit," I said. "You know this yourself. You have become 'noise' to yourself."
He was silent but didn't move his leg. His body was accepting my warmth.
I leaned in and looked at the screen.
"Show me where you're stuck," I asked.
He began to speak, and I felt his tension begin to transfer to me. He spoke of formulas, gravitational lenses, mathematics that should have converged. But didn't.
I listened not to the words, but to the rhythm of his voice.
"Stop," I said, when he reached the "echo." "The problem isn't the function. The problem is the context. You assume that a person reacts to a stimulus. What if the stimulus reacts to the person?"
He abruptly turned his head. This time, he looked not like a boss. He looked like a physicist who saw the solution.
"That changes the entire probabilistic model," he whispered.
"Yes," I said. "You inscribed yourself into the system as an observer. But you didn't account for the fact that you are a density that changes the contour."
He suddenly reached out and ran his fingers through my hair. Gently. Not as a gesture, but as a structural check.
"You are precision," he said. "I cannot lose you."
He stood up, and this pushed away my hand. But he immediately pulled me up with him from the floor.
"Come here," he said.
He didn't lead me to the bedroom. He led me to the diagrams.
"Look," he said. He leaned over the enormous whiteboard he used for complex calculations. "If you are right, the 'echo' is not an error. It is the system's response to my risk."
We began to work. He drew, I erased. I spoke of boundaries of accountability, he—of boundaries of space. We were both hot with concentration.
At one point, as we both leaned over the same formula, his hand landed on my waist. Not as a touch. But as a restraint. So I wouldn't fall. So we would both maintain balance.
I felt his warmth and strength enter me. And it was functional. I became more precise because his body was my support.
"Here," I said, pointing to the formula that needed to be replaced.
He nodded, his breath on my neck.
"Risk accepted," he said, and replaced the formula.
And in that moment, when the solution was found, he pulled me against him. This time—not a gesture. A necessity.
"This wasn't planned," he said, burying his face in my shoulder.
"I know," I said.
Intimacy happened not as an act of desire, but as the necessity to release tension after we had created something together. It was the function of warmth, not romance. It was the affirmation of a fact: we are together.
When we returned to the bedroom, he was calm. Not "relaxed," but restored.
He took my hand, gently, and placed my palm on his scar (the one we had discussed in the plans, related to his past).
"This is my vulnerability," he said. "And this... is your accountability. Not as work. As a fact."
I didn't ask what the scar was. I simply memorized its temperature.
"I am here," I said.
He nodded. And that was all that was needed.
In the morning, he woke up first. I felt it. He didn't leave. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching me.
"Kael," I whispered.
"I log that you have restored your functional mode," she replied. "Two hours ahead of schedule."
Leo smiled. A real, slightly crooked smile.
"I like it when you correct me," he said.
"I don't correct," I replied. "I assign density."
He got up to get dressed.
"I will take you to the Tower," he said.
I nodded. I knew a new battle awaited us. But now I knew I had a restraint—his body, his honesty, his risk. And that was my new pleasure.
Morning in Leo's house was quiet, like a finely tuned mechanism. He didn't use alarms—his body woke up precisely at 6:00 AM.
I woke up later, at 6:35 AM, and immediately felt that I was not where I should be. The internal "compliance sensor" had been triggered.
Leo was already in the study, and I could hear him working—not the tap of a keyboard, but a quiet, steady hum. He wasted no time.
I got up. His T-shirt on me was no longer a symbol. It was just comfortable.
I went into the bathroom. His hygiene system was ascetic: perfectly arranged bottles without names, only codes. Nothing superfluous. I caught myself looking in the mirror, and for the first time in a long time, I saw not the role, but a person who hadn't slept well and hadn't had time to put on armor.
When I came out, he was standing at the kitchen island. He was wearing a fresh, perfectly ironed shirt.
"You have twenty minutes until departure," he said, without even turning around. "I optimized the route."
"Good," I said.
On the counter stood one cup of coffee (strong, black) and one plate with a protein bar, cut into perfect cubes. His breakfast.
"And me?" I asked, finding it slightly amusing.
He turned.
"I didn't know what you eat," he said, without apology, simply stating the lack of data. "That is a protocol error."
"Yes, an error," I said. "My breakfast is orange juice, not a functional brick."
He looked at me, and there was a genuine, quick thought in his eyes.
"I will log that. And I will correct this protocol," he said. And that was his assurance of commitment.
I walked over to him, took the protein bar and the coffee, and sat at the counter.
"Sit," I said.
He sat opposite me. And for the first time, he spoke about the logistics of their union.
"We must minimize external risk," he said, looking at his coffee. "You cannot park in the guest area. It is too conspicuous."
"I know," I replied. "I can park on the secondary level. I used that loophole when I wasn't working for you yet."
He smiled—one millimeter of his lips. It was praise for my precision.
"I will unlock that level for you. But I need your access protocol," he said.
The exchange of personal data in his world was more intimate than a kiss. It was the highest trust.
I dictated my code to him. He entered it into his panel. I felt my personal territory shrinking. And it was comfortable.
"Now we both know where we are," he said.
"Yes," I replied. "And what do we do with that now?"
"Work," he said. "And not lie to the system that is trying to break us."
He finished his coffee. I watched him collect himself. Every crease of the shirt, every gesture—absolute, controlled verticality.
I stood up, walked over to him, and adjusted his collar myself. He was warm.
"You're too tense," I said.
"I cannot be soft now. We are going to war," he said.
"I'm not talking about softness. I'm talking about functionality," I said. "Too much tension breaks the metal. You need grounding."
I reached out and placed my hand on his chest. Directly over his heart. He flinches. He hadn't expected warmth in that spot.
"Grounding," I whispered. "Now go and break them."
He grabbed my hand and, instead of removing it, pressed it harder against himself. His body betrayed him. His pulse was too high.
"You are my risk factor," he said, closing his eyes for a second.
"I know," I replied. "And I am an expensive risk factor."
He let go of my hand. And that moment of emotional density was over.
We walked out. He escorted me to the elevator. He didn't kiss me. He didn't hug me. He simply placed his palm against mine to transfer the access code to me.
[Leo]: This is permanent access. You enter without me.
For him, this was equivalent to a marriage proposal.
I looked at him. There was no uncertainty in his eyes. There was precision.
"I understood," I said.
"See you on the floor. And bring orange juice. I need to log your protocol," he said.
I nodded. And left.
As the elevator descended, I felt myself smiling. I carried his T-shirt, his access code, and his pulse in my memory. And that was the best weapon for the day ahead.
Chapter 16. "The Noise of Nomination"
The air by the elevator on the service level always smelled the same: cold metal, clean fabric, and that "nothing-extra" quality that corporations try to use to replace living people. I placed my palm on the panel—and I was let in. No questions. No pause. (This is his language: not "I am thinking," but "you are permitted.")
In the elevator mirror, I caught myself the way one catches an accidental truth. My hair was pulled back too evenly, because it was easier not to think that way. Under my eyes—not bruises, but traces of a system that loved the night more than it loved me. On my temple—one bright strand of hair, not yet gray, but already hinting that time knew how to be bold. I ran a finger across my eyebrow, as if I could wipe it off like dust. (Of course, I couldn't.)
The shirt fit me perfectly—and that was almost insulting. Because inside, his brief touch from the elevator was still lingering, like a mark on my skin: not tenderness, but fixation. I lifted my chin. I had work to do, after all. Not a romance. (Funny, right.)
The restricted floor was different. Quieter in sound and sharper in meaning. Glass, light, empty passageways that looked like an architectural sentence: "there are no unnecessary people here." In one of the rooms, two screens were lit—modeling an accretion disk and a stream of reports on "contour security." In the other—a table where the curators usually sat. Empty. That made it feel even more unpleasant. (Emptiness also knew how to pressure.)
I hadn't even had time to set down my bag when a message arrived on the general channel. Not from him—from "PR+Legal," dry as a protocol, and with that tone that says: "don't celebrate too loudly."
Nomination confirmed.
The Award Council is considering L.A.'s contribution to responsible intelligence standards and infrastructure protocols.
Request: do not comment publicly before synchronization.
A minute later, in a neighboring chat, someone from the team threw up a screenshot: a headline from a news aggregator, bold, aggressive, convenient for those who liked to be afraid. The meaning was simple: "they are hiding something," "they have military ties," "they are building control," "the skyscraper is a display."
"Oh, great," Maya said from somewhere behind the glass. "We are officially the villains of the week."
Someone snorted. Someone forwarded another screenshot—a completely idiotic one this time: "underground levels," "bunkers," "leader's unknown address," "invisible security." (People so loved it when someone else's system had mythology. It replaced knowledge for them.)
I walked out to the common room—two people from the "second" level were already there, Rebecca was scrolling through the feed with a face like someone who never laughed on schedule, and one lawyer pretended he didn't care (and he always cared; it was their profession).
"Look," someone said and turned a tablet toward me. "Lev Arden's corporation—a shadow laboratory that..." the rest was genuinely funny.
"The funny part isn't the rest," I said. "The funny part is that they are sure they know our address."
Rebecca looked up:
"The nomination is real. But this..."—she lightly tapped the screen with her nail—"is noise. But dangerous noise. Because it's convenient for them."
"It's convenient for them to be afraid," Maya said. "And convenient to hate. And convenient to pretend we are 'not like them.'"
"We really aren't like them," I said, taking the tablet back and returning it to its owner. "We at least read our own documents."
A pause hung in the air—the kind when people try to figure out if it was a joke or an attack. I didn't clarify. (I didn't need to be nice. I needed to be precise.)
Someone on the side showed another news item: "orbital resorts opened new docking windows." Space tourism had long become a commonplace line—like a train schedule, only higher. People bought themselves a week "above the planet," took photos against the black, came back, and said that "everything is different up there." (And these were the same people who panicked over every headline down below.)
"Did you see?" one of the engineers asked. "If they expand the access corridors, we can more easily coordinate our cargo windows for the mission."
"I see," I said. "And it doesn't make me want to post a story about it."
Maya smirked.
"Do you even know how to be happy?"
"I know how to work," I said. "Joy is on my schedule. Very rarely."
Rebecca put down the tablet:
"Lev asked me to relay: ten hundred hours—a brief sync on the nomination and the 'external noise.' Just a framework for reaction."
I nodded, although irritation twitched inside me at the word "framework" (because it was constantly trying to become philosophy, when it should just be... a boundary). I went back to my own space—the modeling room.
I had my own little order there: a screen, a tablet, a paper notebook (yes, paper—I didn't trust important things to a place that could be turned off), and hand cream. I squeezed it into my palms, rubbed it in, and the air immediately became softer—a light scent of iris and something cold, like stone after polishing. My skin stopped feeling alien. (Sometimes, "to live" is simply to stop being dry.)
I turned on music—very quietly, almost background. Agnes Obel — "Fuel to Fire" stretched evenly, without asking "feel something." It was perfect for looking at data and not turning into a machine. On the second screen, the model rotated: not a "hole," but a huge system around it—a glowing edge, movement, heat, mathematical discipline instead of mysticism. I adjusted a couple of parameters. The line twitched and became cleaner. I felt better. (Yes, I'm like that: I'm calmed when the world coincides with itself.)
Jokes popped up on the internal channel again. Someone wrote: "urgently buy everyone cloaks and masks." Someone replied: "we're already in masks, just expensive ones." I didn't participate. It was all cute, but it solved nothing.
At that exact moment, a message arrived from him. Short. No greetings. As always.
Come to me. Take the sheet marked 2040 from the bottom drawer. Do not photograph it. Bring it.
I held my gaze on the screen for a second longer. Sheet marked 2040. Bottom drawer. Do not photograph. (Right. Of course. No secrecy, just "it has to be this way.")
I walked to his office calmly—as if approaching a work task. Yet, I still had that unpleasant feeling inside: as if you were entering not a room, but someone else's coordinate system.
The door opened with my access. It smelled of the same things—leather, wood, sterile cleanliness. My book with the bookmarks lay on the desk. That still infuriated me with its intimacy, because it looked not like "I am reading," but like "I am studying you." (Yes, I know it's the same thing. I just don't like to admit it.)
I pulled out the bottom drawer. Everything inside was organized with such neatness that I wanted to curse. And there, under a folder with no title, lay the sheet.
Old. Yellowed. With an edge that had been held in hands for a long time—not for "order," but because it was needed.
The drawing was strange: circles, arrows, small "eyes" around the perimeter, as if someone was trying to draw the movement of attention. And in the center—not a formula, but a thought. Signed: 2040. And next to it, a short, almost childish phrase: "не дави" (don't push/don't press).
I froze. Because this didn't look like a "memory." It looked like a survival tool.
And then a ludicrous but accurate association came to my mind—Ezekiel's Chariot. Not in the sense of religion and beautiful words. But in the sense of overload: when everything moves, everything sees, everything controls, and you're driving at maximum speed, because otherwise you'll stop and fall apart. (No mysticism. Just the psychophysiology of a person who held responsibility for too long.)
I carefully placed the sheet back—exactly as it had been lying. Closed the drawer. Only then did I exhale.
The door lock clicked behind me.
"You found it," he said.
I turned around.
Lev stood in the doorway. He had the face of a person who had been nominated for an award and only got more problems from it. (A funny bonus.)
"You said 'do not photograph'," I said. "I didn't even think of it."
"I know," he replied and looked at me as if seeing a reaction, not a face. "You closed the drawer exactly as it was closed."
"That's called 'respect for someone else's habits'," I said.
"That's called 'you understand that it's not a document'," he said.
I took the folder and handed it to him. He didn't take it immediately. First, he looked at my neck, my cuffs, my hands. And I remembered the cream—the scent was still lingering in the air.
"Your hands are alive again," he said.
"It's just cream," I said. "Don't draw conclusions from it."
He took the folder. Briefly flipped through it. Nodded.
"Did you see the nomination?" he asked.
"Yes. And the circus around it too."
He slightly smirked.
"Let them write. It's cheaper than reality."
"Do you think you're invisible?" I asked, and was surprised myself that it sounded almost human.
He looked at me directly.
"I'm not invisible," he said. "I just don't belong to their imagination."
The pause became dense. Not because of romance. Because next to him, every word becomes an object—you can put it on the table and understand its weight.
"Then give me a last name," I said. "So there's less space for rumors."
He blinked. Once.
"Not now," he said.
"Fine," I replied. (And for some reason, I felt relieved. Because "not now" is also a form of trust. It's just that everything with him happens through compression.)
Outside, in the corridor, someone turned on a soft beat—very quietly, as if ashamed. The sound slid across the glass and disappeared. I caught myself wanting to laugh: the award, the rumors, space tourism in the news—all of it was absurd.
"Are you going to the sync?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "But I'll return to the model. People can entertain themselves with noise. I won't."
He nodded, as one registers a decision.
"Eva," he said already at the exit.
"Yes?"
He approached closer and did exactly what he always did: not a "kiss," not a "hug," but a short, precise thing. He touched my wrist with his fingers—as if checking a pulse.
"Don't push," he said. And left first.
I remained for a second, looking at the closed door. And I thought that everyone in our corporation was afraid of the myths outside, but the real secret was right here: how he survived ten years ago. And why he still kept that drawing in the drawer.
I returned to my room, turned on R.A.D. — "Unthinkable"
—quietly too, so it wouldn't interfere with thinking, and looked at the model again. The line was straighter. The world coincided with itself for a second.
And let the noise live somewhere outside. It's cozier there for it.
In the elevator mirror, I caught myself the way one catches an accidental truth. My hair was pulled back too evenly, because it was easier not to think that way. Under my eyes—not bruises, but traces of a system that loved the night more than it loved me. On my temple—one bright strand of hair, not yet gray, but already hinting that time knew how to be bold. I ran a finger across my eyebrow, as if I could wipe it off like dust. (Of course, I couldn't.)
The shirt fit me perfectly—and that was almost insulting. Because inside, his brief touch from the elevator was still lingering, like a mark on my skin: not tenderness, but fixation. I lifted my chin. I had work to do, after all. Not a romance. (Funny, right.)
The restricted floor was different. Quieter in sound and sharper in meaning. Glass, light, empty passageways that looked like an architectural sentence: "there are no unnecessary people here." In one of the rooms, two screens were lit—modeling an accretion disk and a stream of reports on "contour security." In the other—a table where the curators usually sat. Empty. That made it feel even more unpleasant. (Emptiness also knew how to pressure.)
I hadn't even had time to set down my bag when a message arrived on the general channel. Not from him—from "PR+Legal," dry as a protocol, and with that tone that says: "don't celebrate too loudly."
Nomination confirmed.
The Award Council is considering L.A.'s contribution to responsible intelligence standards and infrastructure protocols.
Request: do not comment publicly before synchronization.
A minute later, in a neighboring chat, someone from the team threw up a screenshot: a headline from a news aggregator, bold, aggressive, convenient for those who liked to be afraid. The meaning was simple: "they are hiding something," "they have military ties," "they are building control," "the skyscraper is a display."
"Oh, great," Maya said from somewhere behind the glass. "We are officially the villains of the week."
Someone snorted. Someone forwarded another screenshot—a completely idiotic one this time: "underground levels," "bunkers," "leader's unknown address," "invisible security." (People so loved it when someone else's system had mythology. It replaced knowledge for them.)
I walked out to the common room—two people from the "second" level were already there, Rebecca was scrolling through the feed with a face like someone who never laughed on schedule, and one lawyer pretended he didn't care (and he always cared; it was their profession).
"Look," someone said and turned a tablet toward me. "Lev Arden's corporation—a shadow laboratory that..." the rest was genuinely funny.
"The funny part isn't the rest," I said. "The funny part is that they are sure they know our address."
Rebecca looked up:
"The nomination is real. But this..."—she lightly tapped the screen with her nail—"is noise. But dangerous noise. Because it's convenient for them."
"It's convenient for them to be afraid," Maya said. "And convenient to hate. And convenient to pretend we are 'not like them.'"
"We really aren't like them," I said, taking the tablet back and returning it to its owner. "We at least read our own documents."
A pause hung in the air—the kind when people try to figure out if it was a joke or an attack. I didn't clarify. (I didn't need to be nice. I needed to be precise.)
Someone on the side showed another news item: "orbital resorts opened new docking windows." Space tourism had long become a commonplace line—like a train schedule, only higher. People bought themselves a week "above the planet," took photos against the black, came back, and said that "everything is different up there." (And these were the same people who panicked over every headline down below.)
"Did you see?" one of the engineers asked. "If they expand the access corridors, we can more easily coordinate our cargo windows for the mission."
"I see," I said. "And it doesn't make me want to post a story about it."
Maya smirked.
"Do you even know how to be happy?"
"I know how to work," I said. "Joy is on my schedule. Very rarely."
Rebecca put down the tablet:
"Lev asked me to relay: ten hundred hours—a brief sync on the nomination and the 'external noise.' Just a framework for reaction."
I nodded, although irritation twitched inside me at the word "framework" (because it was constantly trying to become philosophy, when it should just be... a boundary). I went back to my own space—the modeling room.
I had my own little order there: a screen, a tablet, a paper notebook (yes, paper—I didn't trust important things to a place that could be turned off), and hand cream. I squeezed it into my palms, rubbed it in, and the air immediately became softer—a light scent of iris and something cold, like stone after polishing. My skin stopped feeling alien. (Sometimes, "to live" is simply to stop being dry.)
I turned on music—very quietly, almost background. Agnes Obel — "Fuel to Fire" stretched evenly, without asking "feel something." It was perfect for looking at data and not turning into a machine. On the second screen, the model rotated: not a "hole," but a huge system around it—a glowing edge, movement, heat, mathematical discipline instead of mysticism. I adjusted a couple of parameters. The line twitched and became cleaner. I felt better. (Yes, I'm like that: I'm calmed when the world coincides with itself.)
Jokes popped up on the internal channel again. Someone wrote: "urgently buy everyone cloaks and masks." Someone replied: "we're already in masks, just expensive ones." I didn't participate. It was all cute, but it solved nothing.
At that exact moment, a message arrived from him. Short. No greetings. As always.
Come to me. Take the sheet marked 2040 from the bottom drawer. Do not photograph it. Bring it.
I held my gaze on the screen for a second longer. Sheet marked 2040. Bottom drawer. Do not photograph. (Right. Of course. No secrecy, just "it has to be this way.")
I walked to his office calmly—as if approaching a work task. Yet, I still had that unpleasant feeling inside: as if you were entering not a room, but someone else's coordinate system.
The door opened with my access. It smelled of the same things—leather, wood, sterile cleanliness. My book with the bookmarks lay on the desk. That still infuriated me with its intimacy, because it looked not like "I am reading," but like "I am studying you." (Yes, I know it's the same thing. I just don't like to admit it.)
I pulled out the bottom drawer. Everything inside was organized with such neatness that I wanted to curse. And there, under a folder with no title, lay the sheet.
Old. Yellowed. With an edge that had been held in hands for a long time—not for "order," but because it was needed.
The drawing was strange: circles, arrows, small "eyes" around the perimeter, as if someone was trying to draw the movement of attention. And in the center—not a formula, but a thought. Signed: 2040. And next to it, a short, almost childish phrase: "не дави" (don't push/don't press).
I froze. Because this didn't look like a "memory." It looked like a survival tool.
And then a ludicrous but accurate association came to my mind—Ezekiel's Chariot. Not in the sense of religion and beautiful words. But in the sense of overload: when everything moves, everything sees, everything controls, and you're driving at maximum speed, because otherwise you'll stop and fall apart. (No mysticism. Just the psychophysiology of a person who held responsibility for too long.)
I carefully placed the sheet back—exactly as it had been lying. Closed the drawer. Only then did I exhale.
The door lock clicked behind me.
"You found it," he said.
I turned around.
Lev stood in the doorway. He had the face of a person who had been nominated for an award and only got more problems from it. (A funny bonus.)
"You said 'do not photograph'," I said. "I didn't even think of it."
"I know," he replied and looked at me as if seeing a reaction, not a face. "You closed the drawer exactly as it was closed."
"That's called 'respect for someone else's habits'," I said.
"That's called 'you understand that it's not a document'," he said.
I took the folder and handed it to him. He didn't take it immediately. First, he looked at my neck, my cuffs, my hands. And I remembered the cream—the scent was still lingering in the air.
"Your hands are alive again," he said.
"It's just cream," I said. "Don't draw conclusions from it."
He took the folder. Briefly flipped through it. Nodded.
"Did you see the nomination?" he asked.
"Yes. And the circus around it too."
He slightly smirked.
"Let them write. It's cheaper than reality."
"Do you think you're invisible?" I asked, and was surprised myself that it sounded almost human.
He looked at me directly.
"I'm not invisible," he said. "I just don't belong to their imagination."
The pause became dense. Not because of romance. Because next to him, every word becomes an object—you can put it on the table and understand its weight.
"Then give me a last name," I said. "So there's less space for rumors."
He blinked. Once.
"Not now," he said.
"Fine," I replied. (And for some reason, I felt relieved. Because "not now" is also a form of trust. It's just that everything with him happens through compression.)
Outside, in the corridor, someone turned on a soft beat—very quietly, as if ashamed. The sound slid across the glass and disappeared. I caught myself wanting to laugh: the award, the rumors, space tourism in the news—all of it was absurd.
"Are you going to the sync?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "But I'll return to the model. People can entertain themselves with noise. I won't."
He nodded, as one registers a decision.
"Eva," he said already at the exit.
"Yes?"
He approached closer and did exactly what he always did: not a "kiss," not a "hug," but a short, precise thing. He touched my wrist with his fingers—as if checking a pulse.
"Don't push," he said. And left first.
I remained for a second, looking at the closed door. And I thought that everyone in our corporation was afraid of the myths outside, but the real secret was right here: how he survived ten years ago. And why he still kept that drawing in the drawer.
I returned to my room, turned on R.A.D. — "Unthinkable"
—quietly too, so it wouldn't interfere with thinking, and looked at the model again. The line was straighter. The world coincided with itself for a second.
And let the noise live somewhere outside. It's cozier there for it.
Chapter 17. "The Prize: Access to Joy"
The dressing room (yes, the corporation had dressing rooms, because even geniuses look better on camera when their skin is touched up) smelled of sterile cream, fresh textiles, and something metallic—like an elevator that knew too much. I stood by the mirror, looking at my face as if it too were part of the protocol. My eyes were alive, too alive. It was irritating. (When I’m happy, I look uncontrollable. Terribly inconvenient.)
Through the thin wall, the media department was working. It wasn't people whispering—it was formulations. "We don't promise," "we don't specify," "we don't comment." Words were like gloves. On the table next to me lay a small tube of hand cream with a dry, expensive scent—almond and something pharmaceutical. I squeezed out a drop and slowly rubbed it into my fingers. My skin immediately stopped being "work skin." It became mine. (Sometimes, that’s the only thing I really own.)
Rebecca passed by—a quick glance, like a checkmark on a list.
"Two minutes," she said. "And no improvisations. Please."
I nodded. We both understood that the word "please" here meant "don't ruin our week." (And I'm not ruining it, by the way. I just sometimes breathe outside the regulations.)
Lev stood slightly further back, against the wall where the light was softer. He wore a suit without any 'look at me' statements—pure fabric geometry and a smooth line across the shoulders. He was looking at a tablet, but I knew he wasn't reading text. He was reading potential failures. When people were around him, he always seemed to be holding an invisible risk map. (And yes, I was on that map too. I was generally a separate item for him: 'dangerous, but necessary.')
"Are you ready?" I asked, moving closer.
He lifted his head and, for a second, allowed himself a human expression. Not a smile. Something rarer: a calm pleasure he didn't allow himself to hold onto for long.
"I’m ready to go out and collect what's mine," he said. "Then return and become unnoticeable again."
"Sounds like an introvert's dream," I said.
He slightly raised an eyebrow.
"It is an introvert's dream," he replied. "Just with security and cameras."
Somewhere nearby, one of the media girls quietly snorted with laughter. She immediately pretended she hadn't. (In this corporation, humor exists as an error. It's not canceled, but they pretend it's accidental.)
On the large screens in the hall, the 'prologue' was already playing: shots of cosmic objects, graphics, dry captions, no superfluous emotions. Everything looked as if celebration was forbidden by technical regulations. Yet, it was a celebration—because people came to watch a man who could make the world believe in the future without showing his face. (A strange kind of power. Very modern. Very frightening.)
I glanced at the news feed and saw the headlines, as always, identically painful: "Lev Arden: Chief Architect of the Human Contour for the Black Horizon Initiative." Below: "Where does he live? Who are the investors? Why is public data scarce?" And the third, the favorite: "Ties to military structures unconfirmed." Which is to say—confirmed in the minds of those reading it.
"They're writing again that you’re in a bunker," I said.
"Let them write," he answered evenly. "When people don't have facts, they create their own. That's a normal function."
"You sound like a press release yourself," I said. (And yes, it was a jab. A small one. For tone.)
He looked at me slightly longer.
"I try not to open up in a room where everything is being recorded," he said. "Habit."
"You are about to step out where everything is recorded," I said.
"There, I tell them what is safe," he replied. "And to you... (pause) ...I just stand next to you. That's harder."
And at that moment, it became too warm inside me. Not romantically. Dangerously. (Warmth is always a risk. I wish it were simpler. But I didn't choose simple.)
Rebecca raised her palm: "Let's go."
We walked into a corridor that looked like the entrance to a vast, sealed world: metal, glass, guards without smiles, people in perfectly tailored clothes moving as if they had a built-in status compass. I walked beside Lev, catching reflections in the glass. My profile was sharp, slightly tired. My hair was pulled back too strictly. On my temple—yes, a new grey hair, thin, like a mockery. (I noticed it and immediately decided it was beautiful. An antidote to panic.)
"See?" I asked, not pointing. "On the left."
"I see," he said. "They believe we should look like a concept."
"We are a concept," I said.
He briefly smirked.
"You are. I am merely a function."
"You're lying."
"I'm conserving," he corrected. "Internally."
We stepped into the light of the hall.
The applause wasn't loud (in 2050, loudness was considered bad taste; people clapped as if "within decency"), but it held a density—recognition wrapped in cultural control. Lev stepped onto the stage as if he were just going out to check a system. No gestures. No demonstrations. Yet, the entire hall was looking only at him.
I stood to the side, in a "safe zone" of light, where I could be close and not look "attached." Cameras caught my hands, my gaze, my stillness. (They always catch the woman next to an influential man. Not because they are interested in the woman. Because they are interested in power—and how it distributes itself through the air.)
The presenter announced his name and his credentials. Projects. Publications. "Contribution to sustainability." "Breakthrough." I listened and thought of something else: the boy born in the USSR, in a country that knew how to make a cult out of the future but didn't know how to make a home out of it. How he left. Studied in foreign languages, in foreign cities, through sleepless nights where everything was decided not by connections, but by the ability to keep one's mind sharp when the body begged to give up. (He doesn't like telling this. He finds it unpleasant to be a legend. But the legend happened anyway.)
Lev took the award—a thin object, like a piece of frozen light. He looked at it not as a trophy, but as confirmation of a route. Only then did he look at the hall.
"I don't like publicity," he said.
The hall truly came alive for the first time, because it sounded not like a pose, but like a fact.
"But sometimes it's useful to say out loud: we are not building technology. We are building constraints. And that is the most difficult architecture."
He spoke simply. He didn't explain physics. He didn't sell mysticism. He spoke about how the "black hole" wasn't about the terrifying. It was about the limit. About the fact that the world is larger than our schematics. And that responsibility is not in knowledge, but in what you do with that knowledge.
I caught the moment when his voice shifted a half-tone lower. There was joy there. Quiet. Almost shy. As if he allowed himself pleasure for a second—and immediately locked it in a safe. (That's how he lives. His joy is also under guard.)
When he finished, the hall applauded again. Cameras showed his face close-up—and I saw what no one else would notice: how his jaw briefly twitched. Not from nerves. From having lived through it. And he liked it. (Yes, he’s all about 'control,' but he’s alive. And today, he felt it.)
Backstage, people immediately surrounded him: organizers, mediators, someone from high finance, someone from the nameless "government bloc." I stood nearby, maintaining distance, smiling just enough not to look like a happy fool.
"Eva," one of the journalists said. "Is it true your corporation is building a starship?"
I looked at him and pretended it was a funny joke.
"If we were building a starship, you still wouldn't learn about it from my face," I said. "We have a bad habit: we don't chatter."
The journalist smiled, as if he enjoyed being kept on a leash. (People like boundaries when they are presented beautifully.)
"And is it true that you are connected to..." another started, and Rebecca intervened with a single glance that could stop an elevator.
Lev turned to me at that moment, and I saw his look: "good." No words. No sugar. But it was "I saw you." And something inside me lifted, like an elevator without mirrors.
We left through a service corridor. No red carpets, no poses. Just security and empty air.
In the car, he allowed himself to exhale for the first time all day, so that it was audible. Inside the cabin, an old Sade track played quietly, almost indecently beautifully—the kind that sounds like expensive fabric on the skin. (And yes, I noticed: he only plays things like this when he feels good. He thinks no one reads that. Funny.)
"Are you satisfied?" he asked, looking out the window.
"I'm euphoric," I said. "But I'm behaving like an accountant."
He briefly smirked.
"That's your survival style. It suits me."
"Are you... in it too?" I asked.
He turned his head toward me. For a long time. Too openly for him.
"I enjoyed it," he finally said. "And it's strange. I always thought such things were only a distraction."
"And it turned out you're human."
"Don't abuse it," he said, but there was a warmth in his voice that he hadn't managed to hide.
His phone vibrated. He looked at the screen and for a second became someone else: not 'Lev Arden,' but a son.
"Mom," he said. And the word sounded so genuine that I turned away not to interfere.
"Lyovushka," I heard through the speaker. The voice was dry, but with that familiar 'I'm holding you' tone. "Congratulations. I saw it. You were standing there, as always... as if you didn't care, but your eyes were shining."
He was silent for a second. (He is always silent when he is truly seen.)
"Thank you," he said. "I'm glad you watched."
"Father watched too. He didn't say anything, but then he just put on the kettle and went out to the balcony. That means he's proud."
Lev closed his eyes for a moment. I saw the skin on his temple slightly twitch under his fingers. This was his 'high'—very private, very masculine: being recognized by those who had seen him without titles.
"Tell him..." Lev began, then stopped. "Tell him I remember."
"I will. And take care of yourself. You're too thin again."
"I'm fine," he answered automatically.
"Fine is not living," she said calmly. "Alright. Congratulations."
He smiled—genuinely, slightly crookedly.
"Thank you, Mom. I'm... happy."
When the call ended, he held the phone in his hand for a couple of seconds, as if he didn't want to let go of that connection.
"Did you hear?" he asked.
"I know how to listen. Especially to what you don't say."
He looked at me, and there was something dangerously soft in his gaze.
"I worked my whole life for this," he said quietly. "And I thought when it happened, I wouldn't care. But now—I do. And it's irritating."
"That's called 'joy.' Get used to it."
"I don't like getting used to things."
"Yes. You prefer protocols."
He smirked again and, almost imperceptibly, placed his palm on my knee. Just placed it. With no meaning other than: I am here, and this is permissible. (From him, that is more than any speech on stage.)
We arrived at the type of corporate housing chosen for people without an address. An elevator without mirrors. A corridor without carpets. A door that opened so softly, as if asking not to leave traces. Inside, it smelled of wood and dry herbs. He switched off the unnecessary interfaces with one movement—as if removing witnesses. I took off my shoes, remained in his shirt, and felt fatigue finally reach my body.
Lev looked at me—quickly, assessing, as always: not 'are you beautiful,' but 'are you holding up.'
"Here," he said.
I approached. He took my chin between two fingers—gently, without roughness, but in a way that made arguing pointless. This was his 'I'm leading,' transferred from the boardroom right into our room. (And unfortunately for me, it suits me. I wish I were above it, but I'm not.)
"Stand straight," he said. "And breathe."
"You command even here," I said.
"Especially here," he replied calmly.
He walked to the dresser, took out a small box, and placed it on the table between us—like an object that ought to be in the frame, even though the frame was gone.
"What is it?" I asked.
"A glitch," he said. "Unscheduled."
I opened the box. Inside lay a delicate diamond necklace, resembling the contour of a gravitational lens, adorned in the center with a small, unexpectedly pink diamond. (Yes, in 2050, diamonds were still a girl's best friend. Only now they looked as though they understood the meaning of attraction.)
Lev looked at the jewelry as one looks at an object that brings no measurable utility but somehow makes the air lighter.
"It's an unscheduled gift," he said. "It has no logistical value. Only aesthetic."
I smiled. This was the most human gesture he could afford: to do something "unprofitable" for beauty's sake.
"I'm wearing your shirt," I said. "I'll accept your unscheduled risk."
"Don't move," he said.
He came up behind me, took the necklace, and fastened it around my neck. His fingers on the clasp were precise, almost irritatingly calm. He lingered at the back of my neck for a second longer than necessary. Not a 'caress.' A connection check. A signature. Then his fingers traced my skin—just enough for me to feel: he is here, and he is not backing down.
"Look," he said.
I lifted my gaze into the dark glass. The pink dot at the center of the stone looked like a small, intentional mistake.
"Aren't you afraid?" I asked softly. "Giving me this now. After the award. After the headlines."
He smirked at the corner of his lips.
"Fear is when you start justifying yourself. And this... is just a dot. To remind you: you are not obliged to be only a function."
"Neither are you," I said.
"I know," he replied. And added, almost dryly: "Sit down."
I sat on the edge of the sofa. He stood opposite, unbuttoned his jacket, and tossed it onto the armchair as if shedding a role. Then he moved closer and ran a finger over the necklace—along the line of stones, like a blueprint.
"You were precise today," he said.
"Don't torment yourself," I said. "Say it in your language."
He looked at me, and his gaze held that rare thing I loved most about him: acknowledgment without theatricality.
"You were beautiful," he said. He pronounced the word as if it were a technical term. "And you didn't let them breach the contour."
I briefly laughed.
"I accept. Even if it sounds like a report."
"I don't know how else," he said. "But I... am learning."
He took my wrist and pulled me up—without abruptness, simply like a person making a decision. I rose, finding myself close. He ran his palm across my waist—confidently, without fuss, as if positioning me correctly for balance. (And yes, it’s sexual. It’s shameful that it is, but it is.)
"Stand closer," he said. "Like this."
I obeyed. He leaned in, touched my neck with his lips—next to the pink dot of the stone. Not 'tenderly, tenderly,' but accurately, as if marking a coordinate. Then he pulled back two centimeters—just enough for me to feel that he was once again directing my body like a project.
"Are you nervous?" I asked.
"I am controlling," he said.
"That's the same thing," I said.
He smirked and, without letting go of me, said as if giving an order to the team:
"Hands on the table."
I placed my hands on the edge of the table. He stood behind me, pressed my back against his—not abruptly, not roughly, just so I had no illusions about who was holding the contour. His breathing was even, but I felt that same hidden tremor in it—not weakness, but the tension of a man accustomed to denying himself joy.
"You allowed yourself pleasure today," I said quietly. "Don't hide it."
"Don't teach me how to live," he said, and his voice dropped.
"I'm not teaching. I'm stating a fact," I replied. (Yes, I know how to use his weapon.)
He fell silent. Then his palm rested on my neck—carefully, without pressure, but with authority. His fingers again touched the clasp. The pink dot flashed in the glass.
"This, I can afford not to hide," he said. "Because this... is mine."
The words sounded like a sentence. And a gift, simultaneously.
Later, we argued—not about feelings, of course. About headlines. About how the team would behave tomorrow. He threw out short phrases; I cut formulations like fabric. Somewhere in the background, Maria Callas sang very quietly—someone from the staff had put on classical music because 'it's appropriate after awards.' It sounded almost out of place, and because of that—perfect. (When the sublime sounds in the mundane, it stops being a pose.)
"They will write about investors," I said. "About how we 'don't name names,' which means there's something dirty."
"Let them," he replied. "Secrecy is not guilt."
"Secrecy is always suspicion."
He nodded.
"Yes. That's why we need a perfect human contour. So that the inside is clean, even if they invent monsters on the outside."
"Are you afraid of becoming a monster?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately. And that was rare.
"I'm afraid of becoming a function without a human," he finally said. "That's worse."
I turned to him, placing my palm on his chest—where his armor usually was. He didn't retreat. Instead, he covered my hand with his and held it as if it were his new form of rest.
"I will try," he said. "But it won't be quick."
"I'm not rushing anywhere," I replied. And added: "Almost."
He smirked.
"That's already progress."
Later, we lay side by side. Not like in a movie. No beautiful pictures. Just two tired people who finally turned off the 'hold the world' mode. He lay on his back, hand on his stomach, breathing even. I looked at the pink dot of the diamond on my neck and thought about how strange fate works: he builds projects about the limits of the universe, but the hardest thing for him is to let a living person into the room.
"Eva," he said in the darkness, as if testing the sound of my name.
"Yes."
"Were you happy for me today?" he asked. And it was almost funny: a man recognized by the world asks if I recognized him.
"I was happy," I said. "And proud of you. And of myself too. (I'm no saint.)"
He turned his head toward me.
"That's normal," he said. "Being proud of yourself next to me."
"Thank you for allowing it," I said dryly.
He briefly smiled.
"I'm not allowing it. I'm stating a fact."
I closed my eyes. Next to him, I felt easy and heavy at the same time. Easy—because he held the contour. Heavy—because the contour did not equal intimacy. But today he took a step. Small. Aesthetic. Unscheduled.
And it suddenly became very clear to me: the fewer signs this corporation puts up, the more ways it has to keep you inside. (Sometimes—through access. Sometimes—through a word. Sometimes—through a small pink dot on your neck.)
Through the thin wall, the media department was working. It wasn't people whispering—it was formulations. "We don't promise," "we don't specify," "we don't comment." Words were like gloves. On the table next to me lay a small tube of hand cream with a dry, expensive scent—almond and something pharmaceutical. I squeezed out a drop and slowly rubbed it into my fingers. My skin immediately stopped being "work skin." It became mine. (Sometimes, that’s the only thing I really own.)
Rebecca passed by—a quick glance, like a checkmark on a list.
"Two minutes," she said. "And no improvisations. Please."
I nodded. We both understood that the word "please" here meant "don't ruin our week." (And I'm not ruining it, by the way. I just sometimes breathe outside the regulations.)
Lev stood slightly further back, against the wall where the light was softer. He wore a suit without any 'look at me' statements—pure fabric geometry and a smooth line across the shoulders. He was looking at a tablet, but I knew he wasn't reading text. He was reading potential failures. When people were around him, he always seemed to be holding an invisible risk map. (And yes, I was on that map too. I was generally a separate item for him: 'dangerous, but necessary.')
"Are you ready?" I asked, moving closer.
He lifted his head and, for a second, allowed himself a human expression. Not a smile. Something rarer: a calm pleasure he didn't allow himself to hold onto for long.
"I’m ready to go out and collect what's mine," he said. "Then return and become unnoticeable again."
"Sounds like an introvert's dream," I said.
He slightly raised an eyebrow.
"It is an introvert's dream," he replied. "Just with security and cameras."
Somewhere nearby, one of the media girls quietly snorted with laughter. She immediately pretended she hadn't. (In this corporation, humor exists as an error. It's not canceled, but they pretend it's accidental.)
On the large screens in the hall, the 'prologue' was already playing: shots of cosmic objects, graphics, dry captions, no superfluous emotions. Everything looked as if celebration was forbidden by technical regulations. Yet, it was a celebration—because people came to watch a man who could make the world believe in the future without showing his face. (A strange kind of power. Very modern. Very frightening.)
I glanced at the news feed and saw the headlines, as always, identically painful: "Lev Arden: Chief Architect of the Human Contour for the Black Horizon Initiative." Below: "Where does he live? Who are the investors? Why is public data scarce?" And the third, the favorite: "Ties to military structures unconfirmed." Which is to say—confirmed in the minds of those reading it.
"They're writing again that you’re in a bunker," I said.
"Let them write," he answered evenly. "When people don't have facts, they create their own. That's a normal function."
"You sound like a press release yourself," I said. (And yes, it was a jab. A small one. For tone.)
He looked at me slightly longer.
"I try not to open up in a room where everything is being recorded," he said. "Habit."
"You are about to step out where everything is recorded," I said.
"There, I tell them what is safe," he replied. "And to you... (pause) ...I just stand next to you. That's harder."
And at that moment, it became too warm inside me. Not romantically. Dangerously. (Warmth is always a risk. I wish it were simpler. But I didn't choose simple.)
Rebecca raised her palm: "Let's go."
We walked into a corridor that looked like the entrance to a vast, sealed world: metal, glass, guards without smiles, people in perfectly tailored clothes moving as if they had a built-in status compass. I walked beside Lev, catching reflections in the glass. My profile was sharp, slightly tired. My hair was pulled back too strictly. On my temple—yes, a new grey hair, thin, like a mockery. (I noticed it and immediately decided it was beautiful. An antidote to panic.)
"See?" I asked, not pointing. "On the left."
"I see," he said. "They believe we should look like a concept."
"We are a concept," I said.
He briefly smirked.
"You are. I am merely a function."
"You're lying."
"I'm conserving," he corrected. "Internally."
We stepped into the light of the hall.
The applause wasn't loud (in 2050, loudness was considered bad taste; people clapped as if "within decency"), but it held a density—recognition wrapped in cultural control. Lev stepped onto the stage as if he were just going out to check a system. No gestures. No demonstrations. Yet, the entire hall was looking only at him.
I stood to the side, in a "safe zone" of light, where I could be close and not look "attached." Cameras caught my hands, my gaze, my stillness. (They always catch the woman next to an influential man. Not because they are interested in the woman. Because they are interested in power—and how it distributes itself through the air.)
The presenter announced his name and his credentials. Projects. Publications. "Contribution to sustainability." "Breakthrough." I listened and thought of something else: the boy born in the USSR, in a country that knew how to make a cult out of the future but didn't know how to make a home out of it. How he left. Studied in foreign languages, in foreign cities, through sleepless nights where everything was decided not by connections, but by the ability to keep one's mind sharp when the body begged to give up. (He doesn't like telling this. He finds it unpleasant to be a legend. But the legend happened anyway.)
Lev took the award—a thin object, like a piece of frozen light. He looked at it not as a trophy, but as confirmation of a route. Only then did he look at the hall.
"I don't like publicity," he said.
The hall truly came alive for the first time, because it sounded not like a pose, but like a fact.
"But sometimes it's useful to say out loud: we are not building technology. We are building constraints. And that is the most difficult architecture."
He spoke simply. He didn't explain physics. He didn't sell mysticism. He spoke about how the "black hole" wasn't about the terrifying. It was about the limit. About the fact that the world is larger than our schematics. And that responsibility is not in knowledge, but in what you do with that knowledge.
I caught the moment when his voice shifted a half-tone lower. There was joy there. Quiet. Almost shy. As if he allowed himself pleasure for a second—and immediately locked it in a safe. (That's how he lives. His joy is also under guard.)
When he finished, the hall applauded again. Cameras showed his face close-up—and I saw what no one else would notice: how his jaw briefly twitched. Not from nerves. From having lived through it. And he liked it. (Yes, he’s all about 'control,' but he’s alive. And today, he felt it.)
Backstage, people immediately surrounded him: organizers, mediators, someone from high finance, someone from the nameless "government bloc." I stood nearby, maintaining distance, smiling just enough not to look like a happy fool.
"Eva," one of the journalists said. "Is it true your corporation is building a starship?"
I looked at him and pretended it was a funny joke.
"If we were building a starship, you still wouldn't learn about it from my face," I said. "We have a bad habit: we don't chatter."
The journalist smiled, as if he enjoyed being kept on a leash. (People like boundaries when they are presented beautifully.)
"And is it true that you are connected to..." another started, and Rebecca intervened with a single glance that could stop an elevator.
Lev turned to me at that moment, and I saw his look: "good." No words. No sugar. But it was "I saw you." And something inside me lifted, like an elevator without mirrors.
We left through a service corridor. No red carpets, no poses. Just security and empty air.
In the car, he allowed himself to exhale for the first time all day, so that it was audible. Inside the cabin, an old Sade track played quietly, almost indecently beautifully—the kind that sounds like expensive fabric on the skin. (And yes, I noticed: he only plays things like this when he feels good. He thinks no one reads that. Funny.)
"Are you satisfied?" he asked, looking out the window.
"I'm euphoric," I said. "But I'm behaving like an accountant."
He briefly smirked.
"That's your survival style. It suits me."
"Are you... in it too?" I asked.
He turned his head toward me. For a long time. Too openly for him.
"I enjoyed it," he finally said. "And it's strange. I always thought such things were only a distraction."
"And it turned out you're human."
"Don't abuse it," he said, but there was a warmth in his voice that he hadn't managed to hide.
His phone vibrated. He looked at the screen and for a second became someone else: not 'Lev Arden,' but a son.
"Mom," he said. And the word sounded so genuine that I turned away not to interfere.
"Lyovushka," I heard through the speaker. The voice was dry, but with that familiar 'I'm holding you' tone. "Congratulations. I saw it. You were standing there, as always... as if you didn't care, but your eyes were shining."
He was silent for a second. (He is always silent when he is truly seen.)
"Thank you," he said. "I'm glad you watched."
"Father watched too. He didn't say anything, but then he just put on the kettle and went out to the balcony. That means he's proud."
Lev closed his eyes for a moment. I saw the skin on his temple slightly twitch under his fingers. This was his 'high'—very private, very masculine: being recognized by those who had seen him without titles.
"Tell him..." Lev began, then stopped. "Tell him I remember."
"I will. And take care of yourself. You're too thin again."
"I'm fine," he answered automatically.
"Fine is not living," she said calmly. "Alright. Congratulations."
He smiled—genuinely, slightly crookedly.
"Thank you, Mom. I'm... happy."
When the call ended, he held the phone in his hand for a couple of seconds, as if he didn't want to let go of that connection.
"Did you hear?" he asked.
"I know how to listen. Especially to what you don't say."
He looked at me, and there was something dangerously soft in his gaze.
"I worked my whole life for this," he said quietly. "And I thought when it happened, I wouldn't care. But now—I do. And it's irritating."
"That's called 'joy.' Get used to it."
"I don't like getting used to things."
"Yes. You prefer protocols."
He smirked again and, almost imperceptibly, placed his palm on my knee. Just placed it. With no meaning other than: I am here, and this is permissible. (From him, that is more than any speech on stage.)
We arrived at the type of corporate housing chosen for people without an address. An elevator without mirrors. A corridor without carpets. A door that opened so softly, as if asking not to leave traces. Inside, it smelled of wood and dry herbs. He switched off the unnecessary interfaces with one movement—as if removing witnesses. I took off my shoes, remained in his shirt, and felt fatigue finally reach my body.
Lev looked at me—quickly, assessing, as always: not 'are you beautiful,' but 'are you holding up.'
"Here," he said.
I approached. He took my chin between two fingers—gently, without roughness, but in a way that made arguing pointless. This was his 'I'm leading,' transferred from the boardroom right into our room. (And unfortunately for me, it suits me. I wish I were above it, but I'm not.)
"Stand straight," he said. "And breathe."
"You command even here," I said.
"Especially here," he replied calmly.
He walked to the dresser, took out a small box, and placed it on the table between us—like an object that ought to be in the frame, even though the frame was gone.
"What is it?" I asked.
"A glitch," he said. "Unscheduled."
I opened the box. Inside lay a delicate diamond necklace, resembling the contour of a gravitational lens, adorned in the center with a small, unexpectedly pink diamond. (Yes, in 2050, diamonds were still a girl's best friend. Only now they looked as though they understood the meaning of attraction.)
Lev looked at the jewelry as one looks at an object that brings no measurable utility but somehow makes the air lighter.
"It's an unscheduled gift," he said. "It has no logistical value. Only aesthetic."
I smiled. This was the most human gesture he could afford: to do something "unprofitable" for beauty's sake.
"I'm wearing your shirt," I said. "I'll accept your unscheduled risk."
"Don't move," he said.
He came up behind me, took the necklace, and fastened it around my neck. His fingers on the clasp were precise, almost irritatingly calm. He lingered at the back of my neck for a second longer than necessary. Not a 'caress.' A connection check. A signature. Then his fingers traced my skin—just enough for me to feel: he is here, and he is not backing down.
"Look," he said.
I lifted my gaze into the dark glass. The pink dot at the center of the stone looked like a small, intentional mistake.
"Aren't you afraid?" I asked softly. "Giving me this now. After the award. After the headlines."
He smirked at the corner of his lips.
"Fear is when you start justifying yourself. And this... is just a dot. To remind you: you are not obliged to be only a function."
"Neither are you," I said.
"I know," he replied. And added, almost dryly: "Sit down."
I sat on the edge of the sofa. He stood opposite, unbuttoned his jacket, and tossed it onto the armchair as if shedding a role. Then he moved closer and ran a finger over the necklace—along the line of stones, like a blueprint.
"You were precise today," he said.
"Don't torment yourself," I said. "Say it in your language."
He looked at me, and his gaze held that rare thing I loved most about him: acknowledgment without theatricality.
"You were beautiful," he said. He pronounced the word as if it were a technical term. "And you didn't let them breach the contour."
I briefly laughed.
"I accept. Even if it sounds like a report."
"I don't know how else," he said. "But I... am learning."
He took my wrist and pulled me up—without abruptness, simply like a person making a decision. I rose, finding myself close. He ran his palm across my waist—confidently, without fuss, as if positioning me correctly for balance. (And yes, it’s sexual. It’s shameful that it is, but it is.)
"Stand closer," he said. "Like this."
I obeyed. He leaned in, touched my neck with his lips—next to the pink dot of the stone. Not 'tenderly, tenderly,' but accurately, as if marking a coordinate. Then he pulled back two centimeters—just enough for me to feel that he was once again directing my body like a project.
"Are you nervous?" I asked.
"I am controlling," he said.
"That's the same thing," I said.
He smirked and, without letting go of me, said as if giving an order to the team:
"Hands on the table."
I placed my hands on the edge of the table. He stood behind me, pressed my back against his—not abruptly, not roughly, just so I had no illusions about who was holding the contour. His breathing was even, but I felt that same hidden tremor in it—not weakness, but the tension of a man accustomed to denying himself joy.
"You allowed yourself pleasure today," I said quietly. "Don't hide it."
"Don't teach me how to live," he said, and his voice dropped.
"I'm not teaching. I'm stating a fact," I replied. (Yes, I know how to use his weapon.)
He fell silent. Then his palm rested on my neck—carefully, without pressure, but with authority. His fingers again touched the clasp. The pink dot flashed in the glass.
"This, I can afford not to hide," he said. "Because this... is mine."
The words sounded like a sentence. And a gift, simultaneously.
Later, we argued—not about feelings, of course. About headlines. About how the team would behave tomorrow. He threw out short phrases; I cut formulations like fabric. Somewhere in the background, Maria Callas sang very quietly—someone from the staff had put on classical music because 'it's appropriate after awards.' It sounded almost out of place, and because of that—perfect. (When the sublime sounds in the mundane, it stops being a pose.)
"They will write about investors," I said. "About how we 'don't name names,' which means there's something dirty."
"Let them," he replied. "Secrecy is not guilt."
"Secrecy is always suspicion."
He nodded.
"Yes. That's why we need a perfect human contour. So that the inside is clean, even if they invent monsters on the outside."
"Are you afraid of becoming a monster?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately. And that was rare.
"I'm afraid of becoming a function without a human," he finally said. "That's worse."
I turned to him, placing my palm on his chest—where his armor usually was. He didn't retreat. Instead, he covered my hand with his and held it as if it were his new form of rest.
"I will try," he said. "But it won't be quick."
"I'm not rushing anywhere," I replied. And added: "Almost."
He smirked.
"That's already progress."
Later, we lay side by side. Not like in a movie. No beautiful pictures. Just two tired people who finally turned off the 'hold the world' mode. He lay on his back, hand on his stomach, breathing even. I looked at the pink dot of the diamond on my neck and thought about how strange fate works: he builds projects about the limits of the universe, but the hardest thing for him is to let a living person into the room.
"Eva," he said in the darkness, as if testing the sound of my name.
"Yes."
"Were you happy for me today?" he asked. And it was almost funny: a man recognized by the world asks if I recognized him.
"I was happy," I said. "And proud of you. And of myself too. (I'm no saint.)"
He turned his head toward me.
"That's normal," he said. "Being proud of yourself next to me."
"Thank you for allowing it," I said dryly.
He briefly smiled.
"I'm not allowing it. I'm stating a fact."
I closed my eyes. Next to him, I felt easy and heavy at the same time. Easy—because he held the contour. Heavy—because the contour did not equal intimacy. But today he took a step. Small. Aesthetic. Unscheduled.
And it suddenly became very clear to me: the fewer signs this corporation puts up, the more ways it has to keep you inside. (Sometimes—through access. Sometimes—through a word. Sometimes—through a small pink dot on your neck.)
Chapter 18. "The Aerotaxi"
He didn't schedule a meeting—he scheduled a trajectory. That's how he operated best. On the calendar, it was called "Joint Review: Black Hole Program / External Interface." In life, it was called "we're flying."
I met him at the pad, where the air smelled not of the city, but of expensive technology and other people's nerves. A glass roof, clear markings, two guards who knew how to be a wall without changing their expression. And a small aerotaxi—not a movie helicopter, but a quiet, neat machine of the future that looked as if it were forbidden to show personality. (Like everything else here.)
Lev was already there. Blazer, and underneath—yes, the same T-shirt with the bear. It seemed he deliberately never changed it, so the world wouldn't think he was playing by its rules. On his wrist—his ring, cold even to the sight. In his hand—a thin folder, as if we weren't flying to meet scientists, but to court.
"You are a minute late," he said.
"I'm not late," I said. "I checked my hair. And my face. And my desire to move to another life."
He nodded as if that was also a control point.
"Normal," he said. "We need the resource."
We went inside. The cabin was almost silent but not cozy: white plastic, strict restraints, a route screen on which the city was already turning into a diagram. He sat opposite—as close as the seats allowed, and as far away as his habits permitted. Between us was glass, air, and the tension left over from outside news. Outside, as always, the noise churned: the nomination, the headlines, "secret corporation," "they are hiding," "they are dangerous." Inside, it was flat. As if we were separated from the world not by the cabin, but by a protocol.
The aerotaxi gently lifted, and the ground below us became toy-sized. The city spread out in a grid below: roads, roofs, light lines, like micro-circuits. The sky above was cold and clean—without drama, just a level higher.
Lev looked down not like a person admiring the view. He looked as if checking where the world had a weak spot.
"Tell me," I said, "do you ever manage to receive awards without irritation?"
"Awards are not pleasure," he replied. "They are levers. They are used against you or for you."
"Thank you," I said. "I almost felt festive. (Almost.)"
He slightly smirked. For a second. Then he became himself again.
"At the meeting, there will be two people from external laboratories," he said. "And one curator of interdisciplinary ethics. He likes to ask questions as if he's accusing."
"I like to answer as if I'm cutting paper with a knife," I said.
"I know," he said. "That's why you are flying with me."
I looked at his hands. At how he held the folder—not squeezing, but not letting go. And suddenly I remembered the sheet from his bottom drawer. "2040." The yellowed edge. "Не дави" (Don't push.) And that strange drawing—circles, arrows, little eyes around the perimeter, as if someone was trying to invent a way not to fall apart.
"I saw your sheet," I said. Calmly. Not as "I caught you." As "I am stating a fact."
He didn't ask "which one." He understood immediately.
"Yes," he said. "I left it there so it would be below consciousness."
"Ten years ago, you drew yourself as overload," I said. "And signed it 'don't push.'"
He looked at me as if assessing the risk of speaking.
"It was my way of not becoming harder than metal," he said. "And not breaking those who are nearby."
"You didn't succeed very well," I said.
"No," he agreed. "But I survived."
We flew above the advertising screens, above the gossip, above the people who loved other people's legends because their own were boring. And suddenly he did something he usually didn't do: he placed the folder on his knees, as if for a minute it had ceased to be important, and looked directly at me.
"You are angry at my language," he said. Not a question. A diagnosis.
"I get angry when it turns into riddles," I said. "I need language that holds, not language that confuses."
"Then listen," he said.
And he spoke—slowly, calmly, without theatrics, like a formula he finally permitted himself to say aloud:
"She felt the many-eyed wheels of the Chariot begin to spin around her, but not with the horror of the Prophet, but with triumph. She didn't just see his anguish; she now governed it. This was not her madness. This was her text. She was not a victim; she was the creator of his new reality."
I blinked.
"Are you serious right now?"
"Yes," he said. "That is what happened yesterday. In the room. In the elevator. After the meeting. When you didn't start making excuses. When you took my weak point—and made it an instrument."
"You are speaking again as if you are writing me..." I wanted to say "a manifesto," but I stopped myself, "as if you are writing me an internal document."
"I am," he said. "Only the document is alive now."
I leaned back in the seat and exhaled. Not from fatigue—but from being suddenly placed at the center of his system, and it sounded not like a compliment, but like a fact. (The most dangerous kind of intimacy—a fact.)
"Translate it," I said. "Into human."
He nodded, as if he expected it.
"You did not become my salvation," he said. "And you did not become my problem. You became the one who manages the precision. Mine. Systemic. And yes—my anguish, too. Not because you manipulate. But because you know how to write a framework within which it doesn't destroy."
"There," I said. "That I understand."
Below, a river flowed past, then a transit line, then a pad where ships for orbital tourism launched. A huge port that people treated almost casually: like an airport, only with different gravity. Somewhere up there hung the hotel stations, where people flew "to see space" and return with the feeling that they were "reborn." (Then they still argue in the comments. That is their nature.)
"Do you see?" Lev nodded down at the port. "They sell people the illusion of height. And we build height as a risk."
"They buy a weekend," I said. "We buy consequences."
"Yes," he said. "And that's why they need a myth about us. So they don't feel that they themselves chose a toy instead of meaning."
I looked at him.
"You say 'meaning' very easily," I said. "That's not like you."
"That's your infection," he replied. And for the first time, it sounded almost tender. (Almost. Don't cheer up, Eva.)
We approached the platform of the scientific complex—glass, concrete, white domes, antennas. People were waiting for us there who were accustomed to speaking with black holes through data and pretending it wasn't about fear. (Although it's always about fear. It's just beautifully packaged for them.)
Before landing, Lev suddenly reached into his inner pocket and took out a small flash drive—thin as a fingernail. He handed it to me.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Your access to the external contour," he said. "For the duration of the meeting. And for the route afterward."
"You are gifting me risk," I said.
"I am assigning it," he corrected. "And I ask: don't push."
I smirked.
"Is that your prayer?"
"That's my safety technique," he said. "I wrote it in 2040."
The aerotaxi gently touched the platform. We sat buckled in for another second, and I looked at him—at the bear on the T-shirt, the strict blazer, the face of a man who had been nominated, slandered, dissected by headlines, yet who still held himself steady, like a vertical line.
"Lev," I said.
"Yes."
"You said 'triumph.' That's not your word."
He looked at me and leaned forward slightly, so that only the cabin and the air remained between us.
"It's your word," he said. "I just rented it."
And opened the door first, as always.
I followed him out. The ground became real again. The sky—higher. And in my head, his phrase about "the text" was spinning. Unpleasantly powerful. Because if it was true—it meant I was responsible not just for the work. I was responsible for his reality.
(Great. One more item on the list of things I can't afford to lose.)
Chapter 19. "The Paperclip"
The scientific complex didn't greet us like guests; it treated us like a potential leak. White concrete, glare-free glass, turnstiles that didn't "let you pass," but allowed you. At the desk, a woman in an impeccably neutral uniform, her face like an interface: polite but uninvolved. I placed my palm on the scanner, and for a second, I felt it was reading not my fingerprints, but all my unsaid thoughts.
Lev walked beside me, looking as if this were his natural habitat: a place where the air was subservient to the rules.
We were led through a corridor with soft lighting and absolutely empty walls. There was no space for even art to take hold here. The doors opened without a sound. The system didn't like using full stops. It preferred ellipses.
"You go here," Lev said, nodding curtly at the meeting room. "I'm going to the 'Center Minute Room' for a moment."
"Is that what you call your cage?" I asked.
"It's not a cage," he replied. "It's a place where I don't spend myself."
He said it calmly, without asking for sympathy. And it was almost laughable: the man who built "height as risk" escaped into a small room just to avoid human eyes. (Too many eyes—and those wheels start spinning inside him.)
I stood near the entrance to the meeting room while security checked our badges and verified protocols. Three people were already seated inside: two from external labs—dry, self-assured, with hands that looked like they held all the world's mathematics; and the interdisciplinary ethics curator—a man with a smile that always looked like a prelude to an accusation.
He saw me first.
"Eva," he said, as if my name were an agenda item. "You are the 'human contour' now, correct?"
"I am the thing you cannot replace with a presentation," I replied. (Dryly. Politely. Almost benignly.)
His smile twitched slightly. He loved it when people justified themselves. I wouldn't give him that pleasure.
Lev entered through another door. Immediately. Without preamble. He sat down so he could see everyone, ensuring no one could "stand over him," even with a glance. The folders on the table were perfectly aligned, as if he had straightened them with a single movement of his palm in the lift.
"Let's begin," he said.
They started talking about observational clusters, the "external interface," and resources. About how the space component of the program would appear to the public. The phrases fell neatly, like sterile gloves: "communication stability," "educational component," "control of interpretations."
I listened, noting how they avoided the main word: fear. Because everyone here knew: black holes weren't about romance, nor were they about "beautiful space." They were about the edge. And about how people at the edge become unpleasant.
The curator smiled, and at the right moment, dropped his favorite landmine:
"Since we are a 'closed corporation'," he said, as if quoting the headlines, "how will you explain to the public that you are not building... an alternative infrastructure of influence?"
A pause hung in the room. Not heavy—calculated. That pause where they check who will justify themselves first.
Lev looked at him calmly.
"We don't explain to the public what we are not obligated to explain," he said. "We show results and boundaries."
"Boundaries are always grounds for suspicion," the curator said softly. "You know that."
I intervened before he could turn the conversation into a moral trial.
"Suspicion is a normal reaction to a data vacuum," I said. "But we are not a vacuum. We simply don't turn access into entertainment."
One of the scientists slightly smirked. The second looked at Lev with interest: he really does have a team like this. The curator realized the "weak spot" wouldn't open today.
Lev turned the page, and the discussion returned to the engineering section: the orbital port, the laboratory windows on the "external contour," preparation for the pilot research flight. No one spoke the words "first flight" aloud, but it lay on the table like a cold coin. (You don't have to show it, but everyone knows where it is.)
At some point, Lev's bracelet vibrated. Not a phone. Not a notification. A signal at the level of "if you don't answer, this will start living separately."
He looked at the screen—and I saw his face shift for a second. Not an emotion. A mode switch. As if his brain sharply returned to Earth from space.
"Two minutes," he said and stood up. "Eva."
It wasn't a request to "save me." It was an assignment. I nodded.
Lev exited into his "Center Minute Room." The door closed silently. And I was left in the room with people who liked to ask too many questions when the main person wasn't there.
The curator immediately went on the attack—not roughly, almost affectionately:
"Are you sure you are comfortable being in Lev's system?" he asked. "He is a man who knows how to disappear. And you are a woman who knows how to be visible. That's a conflict."
"It's not a conflict," I said. "It's an assembly."
"An assembly of what?" he asked sweetly.
"Of a reality that won't be torn apart by pressure," I replied.
I felt irritation rising inside me. (It always infuriates me when they turn a work conversation into a psychological interrogation. It's a cheap way to pretend you're "profound.")
One of the scientists lowered his gaze to the documents. He clearly didn't want to participate in this "ethical" entertainment. The second watched me as one observes a stress test.
At that moment, I wanted to do something completely illogical. Not "win the argument." Not "be smart." But simply—disrupt their rhythm. (Sometimes, the only freedom is a glitch.)
I opened my tablet and saw on the top panel: Lev was on an external call. Behind that door, right now, it was probably not space or ethics. It was "merger," "board," "control," "investor questions"—all the world where he was obligated to be a machine. And he would be, of course.
And that's when it clicked inside me: I didn't want to wait for him to return "even." I wanted him to return alive.
I composed a message. Very short. No embellishments. No explanations. The word "want" wasn't written—it sat in every letter.
I sent it.
And while I sat in that sterile meeting room, between the curator and the two scientists, this exact thought unfolded in me—like an internal commentary that sounds too loud but cannot be muted:
Yes, this is beautiful. And absurd. That exact elegance for which you later hate yourself and repeat anyway.
It's like slipping a note that says "I want you" into the "Ten Billion Dollar Merger" folder and putting a paperclip on top. (Because there is nothing bolder than the personal, formalized as a document.)
His world is pure causality: risk, protocol, consequence, "if/then." Mine—is sometimes simply a fact: "I need to." No explanations. No justifications. No "undo" button.
And that's why it works.
Not because of magic. Because of a rhythm disruption. Everything in his head has a continuation—every word pulls a chain of tasks. But "I wanted to" pulls nothing. It's a dead end for his processor. And an entrance for the human.
I didn't ask. I didn't explain. I didn't pretend it was "logical."
I simply put a full stop and left it where he usually only uses commas.
(And yes, this is the most expensive type of courage: stating a fact and not running away into analysis.)
Beautiful? Yes. Dangerous? Yes.
But precisely because of that—real.
I looked up at the curator and saw: he was still smiling. He still thought he was in control of the situation. (Let him think.)
"Continue," I told him calmly. "You wanted to talk about boundaries."
He slightly raised his eyebrows, as if sensing that something he did not control had just happened nearby.
"Yes," he said. "Boundaries. Are you sure you are not... an emotional risk to the system?"
"I am not a risk," I said. "I am a limiter. The risk is the absence of the limiter."
It sounded too simple to argue with. And that's exactly why it worked.
The door opened. Lev entered. His face was even. His shoulders were level. But I saw a micro-shift: as if it suddenly became easier for him to breathe internally. He sat down in his place and did not look at me immediately. He pretended nothing had happened. (That was his style of maintaining dignity.)
But a minute later, when the curator started bringing the conversation back to "public anxiety," Lev raised his head and said:
"Moral questions are not the subject of our meeting. The subject is the architecture of constraints. If you need a list—it will be provided. If you need a court—find another hall."
The curator stopped smiling for the first time. A look of near-relief appeared on the scientists' faces: finally, adult speech.
I noticed Lev, without looking, placing his hand on the folder. His fingers touched the paperclip. Very briefly. As if he marked: "received."
We finished the meeting quickly. In the corridor, more checks awaited us, more neutral faces, more glass that remembers everything.
When we stepped out onto the platform, the air was colder. Or maybe my body finally caught up with the tension and became sensitive. I walked beside Lev, looking at his profile: severe, collected, with that same bear under his blazer—a detail that made him real and simultaneously even stranger.
"You handled that harshly," I said.
"They were trying to turn the conversation into a punishment," he replied. "I do not participate in punishments."
He said it as if discussing the weather. But that made me feel warm inside again. (He doesn't save. He simply doesn't let the system crush people. And for some reason, that works better than any "I missed you.")
We approached the aerotaxi. He opened the door first. I sat down. He sat opposite and only when the restraints clicked shut did he say quietly:
"The message was... ill-timed."
"I know," I replied. "That's why I sent it."
A pause.
"You disrupted my rhythm," he said. And it sounded not like a reproach. Like an admission.
"It's healthy for you sometimes not to be a machine."
He looked at me for several seconds. Longer than was "safe" for him.
"Do you understand what you are doing?" he asked.
"I don't explain," I said. "I state a fact."
He smirked with the corner of his lips. Then he reached out—not toward me, but toward my badge—and adjusted it on my chest, as if it were just logistics. His fingers briefly touched the fabric. And I understood: for him, this was intimacy. Very precise. Very measured. Very real.
The aerotaxi ascended. The complex below us became a white schematic. The city—a grid. The sky—a clear level where gossip sounded quieter.
"Next is the shipyard," Lev suddenly said. "Not the tourist one. The working one."
"You said 'shipyard'," I noted. "That already sounds like the start of real events."
"It is the start," he replied. "It's time for us to stop talking about the flight as theory."
I looked at him and, for the first time in a long time, felt not fear, but a taste. That taste of "let's go" that people get when their life stops being a series of defensive positions.
"And who is flying?" I asked.
Lev looked out the window.
"I am," he said. "And you, if you withstand the preparation. And the captain will be sent to us. No friends. No 'our people.' Only someone who doesn't fall for legends."
"Excellent," I said. "I don't like legends anyway. I like facts."
He turned his head, and his gaze contained that familiar "I heard you."
"Then hold on, Eva," he said. "There will soon be a lot of body. A lot of regime. A lot of checking."
"Are you scaring me or calling me?" I asked.
"I am warning you," he replied. "But yes. I am calling."
I settled into the seat, feeling the cold air on my neck and the weight of my own responsibility. And the pink dot—where the "unplanned risk" had been yesterday. (It seemed to remind me: in this story, everything important begins not with announcements. But with paperclips.)
Lev walked beside me, looking as if this were his natural habitat: a place where the air was subservient to the rules.
We were led through a corridor with soft lighting and absolutely empty walls. There was no space for even art to take hold here. The doors opened without a sound. The system didn't like using full stops. It preferred ellipses.
"You go here," Lev said, nodding curtly at the meeting room. "I'm going to the 'Center Minute Room' for a moment."
"Is that what you call your cage?" I asked.
"It's not a cage," he replied. "It's a place where I don't spend myself."
He said it calmly, without asking for sympathy. And it was almost laughable: the man who built "height as risk" escaped into a small room just to avoid human eyes. (Too many eyes—and those wheels start spinning inside him.)
I stood near the entrance to the meeting room while security checked our badges and verified protocols. Three people were already seated inside: two from external labs—dry, self-assured, with hands that looked like they held all the world's mathematics; and the interdisciplinary ethics curator—a man with a smile that always looked like a prelude to an accusation.
He saw me first.
"Eva," he said, as if my name were an agenda item. "You are the 'human contour' now, correct?"
"I am the thing you cannot replace with a presentation," I replied. (Dryly. Politely. Almost benignly.)
His smile twitched slightly. He loved it when people justified themselves. I wouldn't give him that pleasure.
Lev entered through another door. Immediately. Without preamble. He sat down so he could see everyone, ensuring no one could "stand over him," even with a glance. The folders on the table were perfectly aligned, as if he had straightened them with a single movement of his palm in the lift.
"Let's begin," he said.
They started talking about observational clusters, the "external interface," and resources. About how the space component of the program would appear to the public. The phrases fell neatly, like sterile gloves: "communication stability," "educational component," "control of interpretations."
I listened, noting how they avoided the main word: fear. Because everyone here knew: black holes weren't about romance, nor were they about "beautiful space." They were about the edge. And about how people at the edge become unpleasant.
The curator smiled, and at the right moment, dropped his favorite landmine:
"Since we are a 'closed corporation'," he said, as if quoting the headlines, "how will you explain to the public that you are not building... an alternative infrastructure of influence?"
A pause hung in the room. Not heavy—calculated. That pause where they check who will justify themselves first.
Lev looked at him calmly.
"We don't explain to the public what we are not obligated to explain," he said. "We show results and boundaries."
"Boundaries are always grounds for suspicion," the curator said softly. "You know that."
I intervened before he could turn the conversation into a moral trial.
"Suspicion is a normal reaction to a data vacuum," I said. "But we are not a vacuum. We simply don't turn access into entertainment."
One of the scientists slightly smirked. The second looked at Lev with interest: he really does have a team like this. The curator realized the "weak spot" wouldn't open today.
Lev turned the page, and the discussion returned to the engineering section: the orbital port, the laboratory windows on the "external contour," preparation for the pilot research flight. No one spoke the words "first flight" aloud, but it lay on the table like a cold coin. (You don't have to show it, but everyone knows where it is.)
At some point, Lev's bracelet vibrated. Not a phone. Not a notification. A signal at the level of "if you don't answer, this will start living separately."
He looked at the screen—and I saw his face shift for a second. Not an emotion. A mode switch. As if his brain sharply returned to Earth from space.
"Two minutes," he said and stood up. "Eva."
It wasn't a request to "save me." It was an assignment. I nodded.
Lev exited into his "Center Minute Room." The door closed silently. And I was left in the room with people who liked to ask too many questions when the main person wasn't there.
The curator immediately went on the attack—not roughly, almost affectionately:
"Are you sure you are comfortable being in Lev's system?" he asked. "He is a man who knows how to disappear. And you are a woman who knows how to be visible. That's a conflict."
"It's not a conflict," I said. "It's an assembly."
"An assembly of what?" he asked sweetly.
"Of a reality that won't be torn apart by pressure," I replied.
I felt irritation rising inside me. (It always infuriates me when they turn a work conversation into a psychological interrogation. It's a cheap way to pretend you're "profound.")
One of the scientists lowered his gaze to the documents. He clearly didn't want to participate in this "ethical" entertainment. The second watched me as one observes a stress test.
At that moment, I wanted to do something completely illogical. Not "win the argument." Not "be smart." But simply—disrupt their rhythm. (Sometimes, the only freedom is a glitch.)
I opened my tablet and saw on the top panel: Lev was on an external call. Behind that door, right now, it was probably not space or ethics. It was "merger," "board," "control," "investor questions"—all the world where he was obligated to be a machine. And he would be, of course.
And that's when it clicked inside me: I didn't want to wait for him to return "even." I wanted him to return alive.
I composed a message. Very short. No embellishments. No explanations. The word "want" wasn't written—it sat in every letter.
I sent it.
And while I sat in that sterile meeting room, between the curator and the two scientists, this exact thought unfolded in me—like an internal commentary that sounds too loud but cannot be muted:
Yes, this is beautiful. And absurd. That exact elegance for which you later hate yourself and repeat anyway.
It's like slipping a note that says "I want you" into the "Ten Billion Dollar Merger" folder and putting a paperclip on top. (Because there is nothing bolder than the personal, formalized as a document.)
His world is pure causality: risk, protocol, consequence, "if/then." Mine—is sometimes simply a fact: "I need to." No explanations. No justifications. No "undo" button.
And that's why it works.
Not because of magic. Because of a rhythm disruption. Everything in his head has a continuation—every word pulls a chain of tasks. But "I wanted to" pulls nothing. It's a dead end for his processor. And an entrance for the human.
I didn't ask. I didn't explain. I didn't pretend it was "logical."
I simply put a full stop and left it where he usually only uses commas.
(And yes, this is the most expensive type of courage: stating a fact and not running away into analysis.)
Beautiful? Yes. Dangerous? Yes.
But precisely because of that—real.
I looked up at the curator and saw: he was still smiling. He still thought he was in control of the situation. (Let him think.)
"Continue," I told him calmly. "You wanted to talk about boundaries."
He slightly raised his eyebrows, as if sensing that something he did not control had just happened nearby.
"Yes," he said. "Boundaries. Are you sure you are not... an emotional risk to the system?"
"I am not a risk," I said. "I am a limiter. The risk is the absence of the limiter."
It sounded too simple to argue with. And that's exactly why it worked.
The door opened. Lev entered. His face was even. His shoulders were level. But I saw a micro-shift: as if it suddenly became easier for him to breathe internally. He sat down in his place and did not look at me immediately. He pretended nothing had happened. (That was his style of maintaining dignity.)
But a minute later, when the curator started bringing the conversation back to "public anxiety," Lev raised his head and said:
"Moral questions are not the subject of our meeting. The subject is the architecture of constraints. If you need a list—it will be provided. If you need a court—find another hall."
The curator stopped smiling for the first time. A look of near-relief appeared on the scientists' faces: finally, adult speech.
I noticed Lev, without looking, placing his hand on the folder. His fingers touched the paperclip. Very briefly. As if he marked: "received."
We finished the meeting quickly. In the corridor, more checks awaited us, more neutral faces, more glass that remembers everything.
When we stepped out onto the platform, the air was colder. Or maybe my body finally caught up with the tension and became sensitive. I walked beside Lev, looking at his profile: severe, collected, with that same bear under his blazer—a detail that made him real and simultaneously even stranger.
"You handled that harshly," I said.
"They were trying to turn the conversation into a punishment," he replied. "I do not participate in punishments."
He said it as if discussing the weather. But that made me feel warm inside again. (He doesn't save. He simply doesn't let the system crush people. And for some reason, that works better than any "I missed you.")
We approached the aerotaxi. He opened the door first. I sat down. He sat opposite and only when the restraints clicked shut did he say quietly:
"The message was... ill-timed."
"I know," I replied. "That's why I sent it."
A pause.
"You disrupted my rhythm," he said. And it sounded not like a reproach. Like an admission.
"It's healthy for you sometimes not to be a machine."
He looked at me for several seconds. Longer than was "safe" for him.
"Do you understand what you are doing?" he asked.
"I don't explain," I said. "I state a fact."
He smirked with the corner of his lips. Then he reached out—not toward me, but toward my badge—and adjusted it on my chest, as if it were just logistics. His fingers briefly touched the fabric. And I understood: for him, this was intimacy. Very precise. Very measured. Very real.
The aerotaxi ascended. The complex below us became a white schematic. The city—a grid. The sky—a clear level where gossip sounded quieter.
"Next is the shipyard," Lev suddenly said. "Not the tourist one. The working one."
"You said 'shipyard'," I noted. "That already sounds like the start of real events."
"It is the start," he replied. "It's time for us to stop talking about the flight as theory."
I looked at him and, for the first time in a long time, felt not fear, but a taste. That taste of "let's go" that people get when their life stops being a series of defensive positions.
"And who is flying?" I asked.
Lev looked out the window.
"I am," he said. "And you, if you withstand the preparation. And the captain will be sent to us. No friends. No 'our people.' Only someone who doesn't fall for legends."
"Excellent," I said. "I don't like legends anyway. I like facts."
He turned his head, and his gaze contained that familiar "I heard you."
"Then hold on, Eva," he said. "There will soon be a lot of body. A lot of regime. A lot of checking."
"Are you scaring me or calling me?" I asked.
"I am warning you," he replied. "But yes. I am calling."
I settled into the seat, feeling the cold air on my neck and the weight of my own responsibility. And the pink dot—where the "unplanned risk" had been yesterday. (It seemed to remind me: in this story, everything important begins not with announcements. But with paperclips.)
Chapter 20. The Shipyard
He didn’t write: ‘I want to see you.’ He wrote as if I were a waypoint on a route that couldn’t be misplaced along the way.
The calendar entry was clinical: Shipyard Inspection / Assembly Access / Outer Perimeter. No hearts, no hints. Only a time slot and a personal postscript—as if he were signing not an invitation, but an order of entry into someone else’s reality: “No questions in the presence of others. No audible adornments. Secure your hair.”
(Yes, ‘daddy,’ I understand. In your coordinate system, ‘Secure your hair’ is the highest form of concern for my safety. Or perhaps simply a desire to see the line of my neck without obstruction. I choose the latter, even if it only exists in my head.)
I dressed in trousers of carbon-silk—a material that shifts in density as one moves—and a form-fitting membrane turtleneck. Over it, a coat that looked like Max Mara from the future: flawless sand-coloured cashmere reinforced with microscopic graphene threads. It didn’t provide warmth; it curated a perfect microclimate around the body.
Hair in a knot. On my wrist—the access bracelet of his level, a matte black hoop I still occasionally touched with my fingers, the way one checks the seam on an expensive fabric. Around my neck—that same necklace: a thread of transparent stones with a pink dot at the centre. It didn’t look ‘expensive.’ It looked like a sensor on a critical node of the system.
I froze before the mirror. Face—even; exhaustion settled deeper than the skin. Eyes... too bright. On my temple, that single light hair still stood out, like a small joke played by time.
(Congratulations, Eva: you are ageing without the system’s permission. The only analogue detail in this digital paradise.)
I squeezed some cream onto my palm—the scent of almond and apothecary: dry, costly. My fingers ceased to be ‘instruments.’ They became mine. This always helps: to reclaim at least one’s own skin when the rest of the day belongs to someone else’s protocols.
Kaelle noted briefly in my ear:
“Respiratory rate elevated. Recommendation: decrease.”
“Recommendation accepted,” I whispered. (And yes, I speak to her as if to a nurse. We both pretend there is nothing intimate about it.)
Lev was waiting neither at the entrance nor by the elevator—he waited where waiting seemed most incongruous: in a service corridor, beside a door without a name.
The ring on his hand always looked cold, even from a distance.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I arrived exactly when I meant to,” I replied. “I was merely checking my face. And my desire to flee.”
He nodded, as if this, too, were a point of protocol.
“That’s normal,” he said. “We need the resource.”
We travelled in the corporation’s private transport. Inside—a sterile, haunting comfort: matte panels the colour of ‘wet asphalt’ and soft lighting that flowed from beneath the floor like liquid neon. No windows. The world outside ceased to exist, leaving us in this hermetic cocoon.
Know, silence is also a way of speaking the same language.
On the panel, the route flickered: three access points, two badge changes, one ‘corridor without eyes.’ It felt as though we were heading not to a facility, but into the interior of a stranger’s dream.
Lev looked at his tablet, but I knew: he wasn’t reading text. He was reading consequences. (And me.)
“You mentioned the shipyard,” I said. “I still want a proper explanation, without your usual ‘it’s obvious.’”
He didn’t even smile.
“A shipyard is where a vessel is assembled,” he said. “Section by section. The rest is simple: integration, checks, simulators, clearances.”
“And... we are going there in what capacity?” I asked.
He turned his head slightly.
“As those who have the right to watch,” he said. “And to remain silent.”
I raised an eyebrow ever so slightly.
(Fine. So today we are playing the elite mutes. In a world that constantly demands feedback and clicks, this is a luxurious protocol indeed. But I suspect his "right to silence" is just a polite way of saying "Eva, don't interrupt the adults while they're building the future.")
“You realize that silence is the most expensive form of consent?” I asked, adjusting the collar of my coat. “Be careful, I might agree to something you won’t like.”
He offered no reply, though the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. The capsule came to a soft halt, and the heavy door slid aside, admitting the scent of ozone and icy grandeur.
Outside, the news feeds continued their favourite human game: ‘myth in place of fact.’ The Bunker. The Intelligence. The Military Contour. No one knows where he lives. Arden’s name surfaced in the comments as if he were a device, not a man: press here for terrifying intrigue.
I caught myself in a strange thought: if anyone truly knew where he lived, they would still pretend they didn't. Because a secret sells better than the truth. Even when no one is selling anything. (Especially then.)
“Tell me,” I looked at Lev, “do you realize you look like the perfect legend for idiots?”
“I do,” he answered calmly. “That is why we don’t give them simple pictures.”
“And if they draw them themselves?”
“They will,” he said. “Let them. We, on the inside, must be cleaner than their fantasies.”
That ‘inside’ sounded like a door slamming shut.
We arrived neither at a city nor at a ‘suburb.’ It was a place apart—as if a piece of reality had been surgically removed: concrete, glass, metal, white domes, security guards without expression. The air smelled of expensive technology and dry nerves. (The scent of ‘you are about to be vetted.’)
The first point: scanning, badge, a brief pause. The second: badge change, signature, a camera that doesn't blink. The third: a corridor without signs, but thick with the sensation that one could not arrive here by accident.
Lev moved with the confidence of a man born inside closed doors. I walked beside him, catching my reflection in the black glass: the knot too strict, lips even, the necklace a thin line of light at my throat. The pink dot in the centre looked like ‘an error left intentionally.’
(I like that he gives me a marker, not a ‘thing.’ As if I, too, have become a coordinate.)
At the final threshold before the main complex, we were issued simple earpieces and thin gloves—not for ‘safety,’ but for discipline. People like to think this is care. It isn’t. It is the control of traces.
“The gloves don’t have to be comfortable,” Lev said, noticing me adjusting them.
“I don’t have to be convenient either,” I replied.
He gave a short smirk—a millimetre of the lips. Then, instantly, he was himself again.
Inside, it wasn't ‘beautiful.’ It was monolithic.
A shipyard in 2050 does not announce its scale; it imposes it. A long hangar-dock, overhead light—cold and even, a floor so clean it seemed afraid of being soiled even by the air. Hoists moved slowly, like massive animals. Cranes were silent, as if forbidden from demonstrating their strength. And everywhere—sections wrapped in film: smooth, light, devoid of ornament. The vessel wasn't being built as a ‘toy for the wealthy.’ It was being assembled as a thing that must endure the world.
And the smell... metal, pristine materials, and something dry, as if paper and plastic had agreed not to irritate the nose.
“Is this it?” I asked, though the question was foolish.
“This is a part of it,” Lev replied. “The central module is currently closed.”
We walked along markings where stepping over the line was forbidden. People around us wore identical clothing—grey jackets without logos, simple boots, faces stripped of superfluous mimicry. (I like people most in this state: functional. Without the attempt to ‘be interesting.’)
A woman approached us. Short, dry, composed—gloved hands, a direct gaze. Her badge bore only a name: Marianna. No surname. No status. As if she didn't need to be remembered. She needed to be heard.
“Welcome,” she said evenly. “Inside: no filming, no touching without permission, questions only on the substance.”
“Eva,” Lev introduced me.
“I know,” she said. (And it wasn't ‘pleased to meet you.’ It was ‘you are already in the database.’)
She led us to an area where a large, sealed container stood. It had no poetic name. It bore a short marking: ONLY LEVI. And beside it, another label: CMR.
I felt a click inside me. Not fear. Recognition.
Center Minute Room. His ‘minute room,’ which he once devised to hide from his own vigilance. (Yes, I remember. I remember other people’s survival tactics all too well.)
I said nothing. I simply looked at Lev.
He noticed the look. And he didn't turn away.
“It isn't for you,” he said quietly.
“I didn't ask,” I replied just as softly.
Marianna, meanwhile, spoke in dry, simple words—and it was perfect. No ‘platforms,’ no ‘magic.’ Only comprehensible things: hull sections, internal framework, verification zones, simulator module, airlock. She gestured, and the shipyard responded with movement: a crane shifted, a film covering fluttered slightly, somewhere in the distance someone made a note on a tablet like a housekeeping checklist in an expensive hotel. (Except here, ‘housekeeping’ involves human lives.)
“Are you building this yourselves?” I asked.
Marianna looked at me as if assessing how grown-up I was.
“We are assembling,” she said. “The order is complex. Module delivery is distributed. Some elements are civilian. Some... are not discussed.”
“The military contour?” I asked almost casually, as if joking.
She did not smile.
“The outer contour,” she corrected. “And that is all.”
To the side, I heard a short chuckle. Two technicians stood by a tool rack, tossing phrases back and forth as if this were an ordinary factory, not a vessel into the future.
“Those ones from ‘the bunker’ again,” one said quietly.
“Give it a rest,” the second replied. “They say they don’t even have windows in there. To keep the thoughts from wandering.”
“And Arden himself sits there like a god, checking to see if we’ve become too bold,” the first added.
They smirked. Not with malice. Just the human need to make the terrifying funny.
Lev didn't turn his head. But I saw something else: he moved a fraction closer to me. Shoulder to shoulder—by a centimetre. Enough to look accidental... and to be a signal. A delimiter. Not a protection. A fixation of status.
(Very convenient. And very dangerous.)
Kaelle noted in my ear:
“Pulse elevated. Both subjects.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. “Most informative.”
Marianna led us further—into a glass hall overhanging the assembly. From there, one could observe without interfering. I approached the glass, and for a second, the scale took my breath away: below, under the film, lay the central section, like the ribcage of a massive white beast. The people around it looked small, but not helpless. They were precise.
“Will it fly?” I asked.
Lev didn't answer immediately.
“It will rise,” he said. “Provided the people inside don't break first.”
Marianna nodded, as if this were a perfectly normal thing to say on a tour.
“We have a separate block for that, for you,” she said, looking at me. “The ‘Human Contour.’ Inside the simulator module. The checks will be rigorous. Not out of cruelty. Out of necessity.”
“I like necessity,” I said. (Yes, it sounds unhealthy. But we are all a bit ‘off’ here.)
We descended and approached the central section. Marianna gave a signal, and one of the technicians peeled back the film from the edge—carefully, like removing fabric from a precious object. Beneath it, the surface was matte, smooth, almost warm to the eye. Not beautiful. But possessing a perfect form.
“May I touch it?” I asked.
“With gloves,” Marianna said.
I placed my palm on the hull. And I felt something strange: not ‘metal,’ not cold. I felt density. As if the object already knew what it would have to endure. (I like objects that don't pretend to be light.)
Lev stood beside me. I saw his profile—composed, dry, handsome without effort. The hieroglyph on his T-shirt looked even more absurd against this backdrop of scale. And in that lay his audacity: not allowing the world to turn him into a perfect icon.
“You’re nervous,” I said.
“I am calculating risks,” he replied.
“Risks?” I asked, without turning. My gloved fingers slid slowly along a seam in the panelling. “But your model fails to account for one variable. The most important one.”
Lev stopped. I felt his attention focus on me through my skin.
“And what would that be?” There was no irony in his voice. Only a readiness to log an error.
“You are building the ‘Human Contour’ as an isolation ward,” I turned and looked him straight in the eyes. Calmly. Without defiance. “You’re trying to protect the system from the biological factor by packaging it in algorithms. But you don't understand: the human in this ship isn't passive cargo to be stabilized. It is the only element capable of making a decision at the point of singularity, where your data turns into noise. You aren't afraid that biology won't survive the acceleration. You’re afraid that at the critical moment, control will pass to someone whose logic you cannot predict.”
The silence in the hangar became physically tangible. Marianna looked away. The technicians froze. This wasn't an argument about feelings—it was a dispute over the right to control.
Lev closed the distance. One step. His face remained motionless, but in his eyes, that same cold light ignited—the one he usually reserved for boardrooms.
“Predictability is the guarantee of survival, Eva. My task is to reduce the probability of chance to zero.”
“Then why am I here?” I gave a barely perceptible smile. “If you wanted zero, you could have hired ten more engineers. You brought me here because you understand: your sterile purity is a dead end. You need someone who sees the seams where you see a monolith. I’m not here to ‘hear legends.’ I’m here to test your simulator for structural integrity. And if I find a vulnerability that you’re hiding even from yourself behind your ‘protocols,’ you’ll be grateful to me. Or not. But by then, it won’t matter.”
Lev was silent. He wasn't angry. He was calibrating.
“Marianna,” he said finally, without taking his eyes from mine. “Give her ‘Red Level.’ Full access to the simulation module. Let’s see how her ‘vulnerabilities’ handle real pressure.”
We exited the same way—through the corridors, the badges, the doors that did not know the word ‘coincidence.’ At the exit, Lev suddenly stopped. Not because of the guards. Because of me.
“It’s real now,” he said. “Get used to it.”
I looked at him—at the face of a man who holds the world as if it’s inconvenient to be alive.
“I don’t like getting used to things,” I said.
“Neither do I,” he replied. “But we’ll get used to it anyway.”
We stepped outside. The air became ordinary again. Only inside me, a new fact had settled: the vessel exists. Which means, soon, the people who want to get inside it will come. And I will look them in the eyes and decide which of them can withstand not space—but themselves.
(Excellent. One more thing not to be lost.)
The calendar entry was clinical: Shipyard Inspection / Assembly Access / Outer Perimeter. No hearts, no hints. Only a time slot and a personal postscript—as if he were signing not an invitation, but an order of entry into someone else’s reality: “No questions in the presence of others. No audible adornments. Secure your hair.”
(Yes, ‘daddy,’ I understand. In your coordinate system, ‘Secure your hair’ is the highest form of concern for my safety. Or perhaps simply a desire to see the line of my neck without obstruction. I choose the latter, even if it only exists in my head.)
I dressed in trousers of carbon-silk—a material that shifts in density as one moves—and a form-fitting membrane turtleneck. Over it, a coat that looked like Max Mara from the future: flawless sand-coloured cashmere reinforced with microscopic graphene threads. It didn’t provide warmth; it curated a perfect microclimate around the body.
Hair in a knot. On my wrist—the access bracelet of his level, a matte black hoop I still occasionally touched with my fingers, the way one checks the seam on an expensive fabric. Around my neck—that same necklace: a thread of transparent stones with a pink dot at the centre. It didn’t look ‘expensive.’ It looked like a sensor on a critical node of the system.
I froze before the mirror. Face—even; exhaustion settled deeper than the skin. Eyes... too bright. On my temple, that single light hair still stood out, like a small joke played by time.
(Congratulations, Eva: you are ageing without the system’s permission. The only analogue detail in this digital paradise.)
I squeezed some cream onto my palm—the scent of almond and apothecary: dry, costly. My fingers ceased to be ‘instruments.’ They became mine. This always helps: to reclaim at least one’s own skin when the rest of the day belongs to someone else’s protocols.
Kaelle noted briefly in my ear:
“Respiratory rate elevated. Recommendation: decrease.”
“Recommendation accepted,” I whispered. (And yes, I speak to her as if to a nurse. We both pretend there is nothing intimate about it.)
Lev was waiting neither at the entrance nor by the elevator—he waited where waiting seemed most incongruous: in a service corridor, beside a door without a name.
The ring on his hand always looked cold, even from a distance.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I arrived exactly when I meant to,” I replied. “I was merely checking my face. And my desire to flee.”
He nodded, as if this, too, were a point of protocol.
“That’s normal,” he said. “We need the resource.”
We travelled in the corporation’s private transport. Inside—a sterile, haunting comfort: matte panels the colour of ‘wet asphalt’ and soft lighting that flowed from beneath the floor like liquid neon. No windows. The world outside ceased to exist, leaving us in this hermetic cocoon.
Know, silence is also a way of speaking the same language.
On the panel, the route flickered: three access points, two badge changes, one ‘corridor without eyes.’ It felt as though we were heading not to a facility, but into the interior of a stranger’s dream.
Lev looked at his tablet, but I knew: he wasn’t reading text. He was reading consequences. (And me.)
“You mentioned the shipyard,” I said. “I still want a proper explanation, without your usual ‘it’s obvious.’”
He didn’t even smile.
“A shipyard is where a vessel is assembled,” he said. “Section by section. The rest is simple: integration, checks, simulators, clearances.”
“And... we are going there in what capacity?” I asked.
He turned his head slightly.
“As those who have the right to watch,” he said. “And to remain silent.”
I raised an eyebrow ever so slightly.
(Fine. So today we are playing the elite mutes. In a world that constantly demands feedback and clicks, this is a luxurious protocol indeed. But I suspect his "right to silence" is just a polite way of saying "Eva, don't interrupt the adults while they're building the future.")
“You realize that silence is the most expensive form of consent?” I asked, adjusting the collar of my coat. “Be careful, I might agree to something you won’t like.”
He offered no reply, though the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. The capsule came to a soft halt, and the heavy door slid aside, admitting the scent of ozone and icy grandeur.
Outside, the news feeds continued their favourite human game: ‘myth in place of fact.’ The Bunker. The Intelligence. The Military Contour. No one knows where he lives. Arden’s name surfaced in the comments as if he were a device, not a man: press here for terrifying intrigue.
I caught myself in a strange thought: if anyone truly knew where he lived, they would still pretend they didn't. Because a secret sells better than the truth. Even when no one is selling anything. (Especially then.)
“Tell me,” I looked at Lev, “do you realize you look like the perfect legend for idiots?”
“I do,” he answered calmly. “That is why we don’t give them simple pictures.”
“And if they draw them themselves?”
“They will,” he said. “Let them. We, on the inside, must be cleaner than their fantasies.”
That ‘inside’ sounded like a door slamming shut.
We arrived neither at a city nor at a ‘suburb.’ It was a place apart—as if a piece of reality had been surgically removed: concrete, glass, metal, white domes, security guards without expression. The air smelled of expensive technology and dry nerves. (The scent of ‘you are about to be vetted.’)
The first point: scanning, badge, a brief pause. The second: badge change, signature, a camera that doesn't blink. The third: a corridor without signs, but thick with the sensation that one could not arrive here by accident.
Lev moved with the confidence of a man born inside closed doors. I walked beside him, catching my reflection in the black glass: the knot too strict, lips even, the necklace a thin line of light at my throat. The pink dot in the centre looked like ‘an error left intentionally.’
(I like that he gives me a marker, not a ‘thing.’ As if I, too, have become a coordinate.)
At the final threshold before the main complex, we were issued simple earpieces and thin gloves—not for ‘safety,’ but for discipline. People like to think this is care. It isn’t. It is the control of traces.
“The gloves don’t have to be comfortable,” Lev said, noticing me adjusting them.
“I don’t have to be convenient either,” I replied.
He gave a short smirk—a millimetre of the lips. Then, instantly, he was himself again.
Inside, it wasn't ‘beautiful.’ It was monolithic.
A shipyard in 2050 does not announce its scale; it imposes it. A long hangar-dock, overhead light—cold and even, a floor so clean it seemed afraid of being soiled even by the air. Hoists moved slowly, like massive animals. Cranes were silent, as if forbidden from demonstrating their strength. And everywhere—sections wrapped in film: smooth, light, devoid of ornament. The vessel wasn't being built as a ‘toy for the wealthy.’ It was being assembled as a thing that must endure the world.
And the smell... metal, pristine materials, and something dry, as if paper and plastic had agreed not to irritate the nose.
“Is this it?” I asked, though the question was foolish.
“This is a part of it,” Lev replied. “The central module is currently closed.”
We walked along markings where stepping over the line was forbidden. People around us wore identical clothing—grey jackets without logos, simple boots, faces stripped of superfluous mimicry. (I like people most in this state: functional. Without the attempt to ‘be interesting.’)
A woman approached us. Short, dry, composed—gloved hands, a direct gaze. Her badge bore only a name: Marianna. No surname. No status. As if she didn't need to be remembered. She needed to be heard.
“Welcome,” she said evenly. “Inside: no filming, no touching without permission, questions only on the substance.”
“Eva,” Lev introduced me.
“I know,” she said. (And it wasn't ‘pleased to meet you.’ It was ‘you are already in the database.’)
She led us to an area where a large, sealed container stood. It had no poetic name. It bore a short marking: ONLY LEVI. And beside it, another label: CMR.
I felt a click inside me. Not fear. Recognition.
Center Minute Room. His ‘minute room,’ which he once devised to hide from his own vigilance. (Yes, I remember. I remember other people’s survival tactics all too well.)
I said nothing. I simply looked at Lev.
He noticed the look. And he didn't turn away.
“It isn't for you,” he said quietly.
“I didn't ask,” I replied just as softly.
Marianna, meanwhile, spoke in dry, simple words—and it was perfect. No ‘platforms,’ no ‘magic.’ Only comprehensible things: hull sections, internal framework, verification zones, simulator module, airlock. She gestured, and the shipyard responded with movement: a crane shifted, a film covering fluttered slightly, somewhere in the distance someone made a note on a tablet like a housekeeping checklist in an expensive hotel. (Except here, ‘housekeeping’ involves human lives.)
“Are you building this yourselves?” I asked.
Marianna looked at me as if assessing how grown-up I was.
“We are assembling,” she said. “The order is complex. Module delivery is distributed. Some elements are civilian. Some... are not discussed.”
“The military contour?” I asked almost casually, as if joking.
She did not smile.
“The outer contour,” she corrected. “And that is all.”
To the side, I heard a short chuckle. Two technicians stood by a tool rack, tossing phrases back and forth as if this were an ordinary factory, not a vessel into the future.
“Those ones from ‘the bunker’ again,” one said quietly.
“Give it a rest,” the second replied. “They say they don’t even have windows in there. To keep the thoughts from wandering.”
“And Arden himself sits there like a god, checking to see if we’ve become too bold,” the first added.
They smirked. Not with malice. Just the human need to make the terrifying funny.
Lev didn't turn his head. But I saw something else: he moved a fraction closer to me. Shoulder to shoulder—by a centimetre. Enough to look accidental... and to be a signal. A delimiter. Not a protection. A fixation of status.
(Very convenient. And very dangerous.)
Kaelle noted in my ear:
“Pulse elevated. Both subjects.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. “Most informative.”
Marianna led us further—into a glass hall overhanging the assembly. From there, one could observe without interfering. I approached the glass, and for a second, the scale took my breath away: below, under the film, lay the central section, like the ribcage of a massive white beast. The people around it looked small, but not helpless. They were precise.
“Will it fly?” I asked.
Lev didn't answer immediately.
“It will rise,” he said. “Provided the people inside don't break first.”
Marianna nodded, as if this were a perfectly normal thing to say on a tour.
“We have a separate block for that, for you,” she said, looking at me. “The ‘Human Contour.’ Inside the simulator module. The checks will be rigorous. Not out of cruelty. Out of necessity.”
“I like necessity,” I said. (Yes, it sounds unhealthy. But we are all a bit ‘off’ here.)
We descended and approached the central section. Marianna gave a signal, and one of the technicians peeled back the film from the edge—carefully, like removing fabric from a precious object. Beneath it, the surface was matte, smooth, almost warm to the eye. Not beautiful. But possessing a perfect form.
“May I touch it?” I asked.
“With gloves,” Marianna said.
I placed my palm on the hull. And I felt something strange: not ‘metal,’ not cold. I felt density. As if the object already knew what it would have to endure. (I like objects that don't pretend to be light.)
Lev stood beside me. I saw his profile—composed, dry, handsome without effort. The hieroglyph on his T-shirt looked even more absurd against this backdrop of scale. And in that lay his audacity: not allowing the world to turn him into a perfect icon.
“You’re nervous,” I said.
“I am calculating risks,” he replied.
“Risks?” I asked, without turning. My gloved fingers slid slowly along a seam in the panelling. “But your model fails to account for one variable. The most important one.”
Lev stopped. I felt his attention focus on me through my skin.
“And what would that be?” There was no irony in his voice. Only a readiness to log an error.
“You are building the ‘Human Contour’ as an isolation ward,” I turned and looked him straight in the eyes. Calmly. Without defiance. “You’re trying to protect the system from the biological factor by packaging it in algorithms. But you don't understand: the human in this ship isn't passive cargo to be stabilized. It is the only element capable of making a decision at the point of singularity, where your data turns into noise. You aren't afraid that biology won't survive the acceleration. You’re afraid that at the critical moment, control will pass to someone whose logic you cannot predict.”
The silence in the hangar became physically tangible. Marianna looked away. The technicians froze. This wasn't an argument about feelings—it was a dispute over the right to control.
Lev closed the distance. One step. His face remained motionless, but in his eyes, that same cold light ignited—the one he usually reserved for boardrooms.
“Predictability is the guarantee of survival, Eva. My task is to reduce the probability of chance to zero.”
“Then why am I here?” I gave a barely perceptible smile. “If you wanted zero, you could have hired ten more engineers. You brought me here because you understand: your sterile purity is a dead end. You need someone who sees the seams where you see a monolith. I’m not here to ‘hear legends.’ I’m here to test your simulator for structural integrity. And if I find a vulnerability that you’re hiding even from yourself behind your ‘protocols,’ you’ll be grateful to me. Or not. But by then, it won’t matter.”
Lev was silent. He wasn't angry. He was calibrating.
“Marianna,” he said finally, without taking his eyes from mine. “Give her ‘Red Level.’ Full access to the simulation module. Let’s see how her ‘vulnerabilities’ handle real pressure.”
We exited the same way—through the corridors, the badges, the doors that did not know the word ‘coincidence.’ At the exit, Lev suddenly stopped. Not because of the guards. Because of me.
“It’s real now,” he said. “Get used to it.”
I looked at him—at the face of a man who holds the world as if it’s inconvenient to be alive.
“I don’t like getting used to things,” I said.
“Neither do I,” he replied. “But we’ll get used to it anyway.”
We stepped outside. The air became ordinary again. Only inside me, a new fact had settled: the vessel exists. Which means, soon, the people who want to get inside it will come. And I will look them in the eyes and decide which of them can withstand not space—but themselves.
(Excellent. One more thing not to be lost.)
Chapter 21. The God Interface
Chicago 2050 did not sleep—it calculated. The morning was electrified and sterile. I walked down Michigan Avenue, where magnetic train capsules glided soundlessly overhead, and the mirrored facades of skyscrapers reflected a sky that seemed too blue to be real. The city smelled of ozone, expensive plastic, and the crispness of artificial gardens.
I entered the Tower. My palm settled onto the scanner by habit.
"Good morning, Eva," the soft voice of the AI responded.
Inside the office, the life Lev Arden called "business-business" was in full swing. After an endless meeting in the "Glass Cube," once the last investor had left the hall, Lev approached me.
"Stay," he muttered curtly.
He led me to Laboratory Zero. There were no windows there, only soft light. Lev ordered the staff to leave and stepped up to the control panel of the "God Interface" himself. His fingers were precise, but I saw him freeze for a split second before attaching the sensors to my temples. He had already been there. He knew what was about to happen.
"Fifty-nine seconds, Eva," he whispered. "Exactly one minute."
Lev’s world vanished.
The Minute-Room as Eternity
I step through a door marked 13:49—and I hear a mechanism click somewhere far away. It’s not loud like an old clock, but dry, like a life-support machine. Click—and the seconds begin to spread like molten glass. They stretch, thin and sticky, and suddenly you realize: here, a minute is an epoch. Sixty sections of a thousand years each, and every second is a separate continent.
The first second smells of damp earth and iron. I take a breath—and mist rises from dark clay; from the mist, veins of water; from the water, sprouts. They grow before my eyes as if someone were filming cosmic-speed stop-motion: stems break through the bark of time, wet leaves unfurl, and suddenly the grasses are rustling like paper. A second breath—and warm creatures move along the slopes: small bodies with amber eyes, the sound of soft paws, rustles that do not yet know the word "fear." I do nothing—I am a witness, and being a witness hurts: every cell itches with the urge to intervene.
At mark 0:03, the sky turns milky and heavy for the first time, and threads descend from it—thin as hair. At first, I take them for rain, but it’s not water. It is writing. Every thread carries symbols, just as a DNA spiral carries codes. The threads fall to the ground, disintegrating, and where they touch the soil, words arise, and from words—people. They rise—black hair, narrow shoulders, bare feet—and immediately look up, to where a massive, white, silent clock face hangs. In its center is a motionless hand. I understand: these people were born into the temple of the minute. Their god is the countdown.
Cities grow out of habits. First, they build hearths at the base of the clock hand, then circular houses like layers of an onion, then walls with niches for candles, a library of stone tablets, and a tower where the "Listeners" reside. Listeners are those who can translate the whisper of minutes into human words. I don’t need a translation—I hear it instantly. I hear the minute whispering about the end: not loudly, but at low frequencies, beneath the hum of markets and children's games.
I want to warn them—but my mouth produces no sound. Eternity robs you of your voice: here, one can only write with their body. I learn to leave traces: thin white scars appear on my skin—an alphabet that can only be read with fingers. I let the children touch my hands, and they learn to understand: "we have little minute left."
At 0:10, they invent glass. At 0:12—optics. At 0:15—they build the first observatory, filled with tubes that look not at the stars (there are only three, repeating in a cycle), but at the edge of the sector—the boundary of the second. There is a film there, thin as a soap bubble, and beyond it—a blank field. They call it Zero. A student of the Listeners, a boy with black eyelashes, brings me a quartz plate in which they have caught the dust of Zero. The dust doesn't glint. It has no smell. In my hands, it is weightless, like a good excuse.
By 0:20, ceremonies become complex. A bell appears in the square that cannot be struck—it will strike itself when the hand at the end of the second shifts by an invisible fraction. They know it will happen; they just don’t know how many of these centuries they have left. Their faith is geometry without numbers.
I love one woman. Her name is Arya. She is a sculptor: she carves poses of waiting out of stone. Her palms repeat the same gesture over and over—as if lifting an invisible face to be seen. She laughs rarely, but when she does, her teeth clatter like the teeth of a gear. We sit by the wall and listen to the hot wind blow. I don’t tell her that the end is hardcoded—I have no right to turn her eternity into my warning. I only ask her to touch my scars—that is how I leave the word "trace" in her memory.
By 0:30, a language of light is born. They learn to send beams to the very edge of the second and reflect them back into the heart of the city. These beams carry images of futures that will never happen here but can be imagined: voiceless machines, salt gardens, cities built on whale bones—everything that keeps the nerves alive when the shiver of the end crawls over the skin. The beams draw plans for bridges to Zero. The bridges break—again and again. But the people never stop imagining. It is the only material that doesn't crack under the weight of time.
At 0:35, the "Party of the Eternal" emerges—those who refuse to acknowledge the end. They build mirrored rooms where they can look at themselves forever, proving that "as long as I am, eternity exists." They hate the Listeners—especially me. I hear their knives being sharpened in the dark. At 0:37, they cut off the right ear of the boy with black eyelashes. So he won't hear. So we won't hear through him. He smiles at me without an ear and whispers: "I will listen with my skin." I kiss his remaining ear and feel the char in my throat.
By 0:40, Arya carves a stele—a smooth black stone without letters. We make an agreement: I will lie on the stone and leave all my scarred text upon it. The stone is heavy, like the silence of the city. My scars whiten when they contact the surface. The stone eats my words and grows warm. I fall asleep right on it. I dream of the bell.
By 0:45, the bell breathes. It draws in air—very slowly, like a chest after an injury. The square empties—people walk in quiet circles, whispering fairy tales to children where the end lives not in the last line, but in every verb. The Listeners do not sleep. We sit beneath the tower and read the vibrations: almost nothing is left. My insides burn: not with fire, but with the blue cold found in ocean depths.
At 0:50, the Party of the Eternal starts a riot. They smash the optics, scrape the black arrows off the walls, and twist the arms of the Listeners. I am tied to a post near Arya’s stone—so the "Quiet One" won't sow panic. I don't resist. My lungs move less frequently. Arya approaches me and raps her knuckles against my elbow—our signal for "I am here." I look into her eyes and see a narrow strip of water on the iris: she has an ocean inside too.
At 0:55, the boy without an ear lights a thin thread—a strap of light stretched from the edge of the second to the center of the square. It is the last bridge. It holds by a miracle: it has no supports, it hangs like a string. The boy takes my hand—the scarred skin sticks to the light with a crackle. For a moment, I see through Zero—there is white noise, like a TV without a signal. But in the noise, there are dashes, like pencil marks on a child’s height chart. These are the traces of minutes already passed. Among them is a thin white thread, very much like my name. I reach for it—and in that moment, the bell takes its breath.
At 0:56, I hear a crack—as if a massive block of ice has split from top to bottom. The city sighs. Personal bells begin to ring everywhere: dishes in houses sing, stairs bent under tens of thousands of feet tremble like strings. The Eternals fall to their knees before mirrors—the mirrors have no reflection. The Listeners lift their faces to the sky—black needles in their eyes: we see what must not be seen.
At 0:57, Arya stands beside me—not too close, so as not to interfere with the bridge, but close enough for me to feel her warmth. She places her palm on my heart—and for a second, the cold recedes. I know the bell will strike on its own—it needs no hand. I whisper to Arya with my lips (no sound): "Trace." She nods and touches her cheek to my shoulder. A salt mark remains on my skin—it will later become a line on the stone.
At 0:58, the boy without an ear tears the bridge thread and winds it around his elbow—it cuts the skin like live wire. He pulls it toward Zero, and Zero creaks. The creak is not even a sound; it is meaning rubbing against a boundary. For a moment, it feels like we’ve made a hole—a hair’s width. Through it pulls the cold of another minute. But this cold is not air—it is pure calculation. It carries no smells. It carries registers.
At 0:59, the sky turns black. Not "in the dark," but void of color entirely. The skin on my hands becomes covered in letters I did not write: Zero is writing its notes on me. In every sign—crossed-out names. I hear the city's last breath—thousands of chests together—and a long exhale, like that of dying seas. Arya looks at me without eyelids—suddenly her eyelashes vanish, like extra details being erased. She smiles without pain. For the first and last time, I hear my voice—it comes from below, as if from a cave: "I am here."
The bell strikes.
The strike is not a sound. The strike is a contraction. Everything that was folds into a point, as if a massive white cloth were pulled tight by a string.
I feel houses crumple, fates fold, stories collapse, and in the last fraction of a moment, they all pray not for salvation, but for the preservation of meaning. I feel my hand, tied to the light string, become a line, then a dash, and then nothing. But Arya’s stone—warm—holds out for a fraction of a second longer. I manage to press the last sign into it: — (a long dash). Maybe someday someone will touch it and feel: everything was here.
The fabric snaps—and I am thrown into the empty field of the next second. It smells of nothing. The whiteness here is not light or paint; whiteness is a mode. I stand barefoot on a smooth surface that does not resist my weight. I have no voice. I have no scars on my skin. I have no name. But in my bones—like tiny grains of sand—rings the city that is no more: children's laughter, the salt mark on my shoulder, the crack of mirrors, the breath of the bell. They are not words—they are a skill.
I try to remember—and memory walks on tiptoe, like in a museum at night. It doesn't want to frighten. I clench my palms—there is nothing. Then I lift my eyes: ahead are two more seconds and then... fifty-nine. Beyond each is eternity. I take a step.
The new air is clean as a scalpel. The boundary opens—the next door is already waiting. It bears a different mark. In the corner, the mechanism clicks again. And I—enter.
Reality returned with a jolt.
I opened my eyes in Laboratory Zero. Lev was standing right in front of me, his face deathly pale. Only a minute had passed, but I could see that in those sixty seconds, he had lived his own eternity while watching me.
I couldn’t speak. I just slowly reached out and touched his cheek. I searched for scars on him, searched for the warmth of Arya’s stone. Lev intercepted my hand. He didn't ask anything. He knew.
"Did you see them?" he asked barely audibly. "Those who build bridges to Zero?"
I nodded. Now I knew his secret. We were both Listeners.
For a long time, I couldn't focus my gaze on his face. Lev seemed flat to me, two-dimensional, as if he had been cut out of paper and pasted onto the background of this sterile room. The bell that "cannot be struck" still rang in my ears, and the skin on my hands burned from phantom scars.
Lev carefully disconnected the sensors. His hands trembled almost imperceptibly—a rare sight for a man who holds half the world’s IT market in a grip of iron.
"What was that, Lev?" my voice sounded as if I hadn't used it for a thousand years. "What does this machine actually affect?"
He froze, his hand still near my temple.
"In theory—it's biochemical overdriving," he replied dryly. "We feed data arrays directly so the AI can live through human experience in fractions of a second and become smarter."
I sharply pushed his hand away.
"Experience? Lev, there were people there. There was a woman named Arya who carved my memory into stone. There was a boy whose ear your 'Eternals' cut off so he’d stop hearing us. Do you understand what you've created?"
I stood up, swaying, and moved close to him.
"You created a world that is born and dies every minute just so your algorithms become more efficient. You are a God who indifferently watches an apocalypse every sixty seconds. You come in here, drink your coffee, look at charts, while inside there, an entire civilization is beating against mirrored walls, knowing their time is about to expire."
Lev remained silent, and in that silence, I heard the answer.
"You saw it too, didn't you?" I whispered. "When you wore these devices yourself, you didn't see numbers. You saw their fear. And you got scared yourself, so you hid it all behind the term 'side effect.' You force us all to live in this sterile Chicago while inside that box, the only real life pulses—the life you kill over and over again."
I touched his shoulder—the exact spot where Arya had left her salt trace.
"We aren't just accomplices, Lev. We are the only survivors of a catastrophe you launch every morning on schedule."
Lev said nothing. He just looked at his hands, the ones that had just been tuning the "God Interface," as if the blood of those who vanished with the last strike of the bell had suddenly seeped through the skin. In the sterile purity of Chicago 2050, his silence was louder than any scream.
"That's enough for today," he finally managed to say. His voice was foreign, broken. "Go home, Eva."
I walked out of the Tower, but the city no longer seemed like an achievement of civilization. The magnetic trains, the floating gardens, the flawless faces of passersby—it all looked like a thin film stretched over an abyss. I walked down Michigan Avenue and caught myself listening: would the mechanism click? Would the asphalt spread like molten glass?
That evening, I sat in my apartment, looking at the city skyline. The skyscraper lights blinked like sensors on Lev’s panel. At some point, the phone rang. No name appeared on the screen, but I knew the code.
"Are you awake?" Lev asked. In the background noise, I heard the wind. He was on a roof somewhere.
"One cannot sleep in this world, Lev. Here, a minute is an epoch, and we have too few of them left," I replied, pressing the phone to my ear so hard it felt like that very thread of light the earless boy had held.
"Come over," he said curtly. "I can't be in this silence alone. I'm afraid that if I close my eyes, the bell will strike again, and this time I won't wake up in time."
I stood under the icy streams of the shower, trying to wash away the smell of damp clay and iron. Water ran down my back, but I still felt Arya’s touch.
(If time is an illusion, why do my muscles ache with the exhaustion of ten passed centuries?)
I stepped out of the stall and stared into the fogged-up mirror. I wiped the glass with my palm, revealing my face.
(Still the same Eva. The same collarbones. The same habit of biting my lip when the world begins to fray at the seams. Could the God Interface not have fixed at least the dark circles under my eyes?)
I began to dress. No silk, no attempts to look "pretty." Jeans, heavy boots, and a simple black hoodie.
(Dressing as if preparing for a long flight. In a sense, I am. A jump from 2050 into his personal abyss is a flight without a safety net.)
As I laced my boots, my hand involuntarily touched my elbow. Right where Arya had rapped her knuckles in the "minute." The skin was smooth, but the bone inside ached.
(Body memory is the most honest thing I have left. Lev thinks he created a system. Но he just planted an entire world under my skin, and now it demands attention.)
The phone on the nightstand blinked again.
("Come over." Short. Dry. Almost a command. The Architect in him doesn't know how to ask—he just states his need. It would have made me angry before. Now—only a quiet smirk into the void.)
I picked up the phone.
(I’m going not because he pressed a button. And not because I’m a "good girl." Simply because I’m the only one who knows that behind his "Come over" stands the scream of a bell from which one cannot hide even in his flawless penthouse. To leave him alone now would be to let him drown in that very "Zero".)
I left the apartment. Chicago met me with its eternal neon hum.
(The city of the future is just a very expensive garland if the silence of "Zero" still rings inside you.)
At the entrance to his residence, there was no security—only sensors that recognized me even as I approached. The reader on the elevator blinked green. The access key he had given me back then—in another life, before the "God Interface"—worked silently.
(Funny. He gave me the key to the door, but today I’m opening a lock he never even planned to show me.)
The elevator rose to the top level. The doors slid open, and I found myself in the penthouse. No lights were on. Huge panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows sucked in the night city, turning the room into an aquarium filled with lights and shadows.
Lev sat in a deep armchair, his back to the entrance. He held a glass in his hand, but he wasn't drinking. He was just staring at the horizon, where the Chicago sky merged with the blackness of Lake Michigan.
(Sitting so still, as if he’s afraid the slightest movement will trigger that mechanism from the minute-room again.)
I didn't turn on the lights. I just stepped closer. Мои шаги по мягкому покрытию были бесшумны, но он почувствовал моё присутствие. Его плечи едва заметно расслабились.
"I thought you wouldn't come," he said without turning. His voice was dry, weathered. "After what I made you see."
I stopped a few steps away from him.
"You didn't 'make' me, Lev. You just opened the door that you walk through every morning."
(I wonder, did he expect me to start screaming? Or to faint? The Architect is used to predictable reactions. But I no longer fit his statistics.)
I walked around the chair and stood before him, blocking his view of his glittering empire. In the twilight, his face seemed carved from Arya’s stone—sharp cheekbones, dark hollows for eyes.
"There, at 0:59, when the sky turned black..." I lowered my voice to a whisper. "You heard that exhale too, didn't you? When everything we built collapsed into a point?"
Lev finally looked up at me. In his eyes, there was no "business-business." There was that very "solitude for two" that no algorithm can calculate.
"I hear it every time, Eva," he replied softly. "And every time I hope that in the next minute, something will change. But only the interface changes. The essence remains the same: we are alone."
I reached out and covered his hand gripping the glass. His fingers were icy.
(A monk who built himself a temple of glass and steel to hide from the god he created himself.)
I slowly lowered myself to the floor in front of his chair. My knees touched the cold polished wood, but I didn't look away. I placed my palm on his knee—confidently, the way a seal is placed on an important document. Lev flinched, but didn't pull away.
(Strange. The richest man in this sector, and under my hand—just a frightened man whose pulse beats as fast as that earless boy's at the boundary of the second.)
"Listen to me, Lev," my voice was steady, almost hypnotic. "I don't give a damn about what's in your reports. I don't care about investors, the Singularity, or how many billions you made on this hellish ride called 'the Interface'."
I squeezed his knee slightly, forcing him to focus only on me.
"Maybe everything happening between us is your flawless calculation. Maybe you calculated my every reaction, every tear, all these nights I lived through forgetting what sleep is, and this arrival of mine at two in the morning. Or maybe it’s all one big code error you couldn't patch. To me—it—doesn't—matter."
I saw his jaw tighten. In the silence, the climate control hummed, mimicking the breath of a sleeping beast.
"I know everything," I continued, the lights of Chicago reflecting in my eyes. "I saw the underside of your greatness. I saw the void you live in when the monitors go dark. And you know what? I’m not going anywhere. I will always be here, over your shoulder, even if you decide to burn this world to the ground in the next minute."
I smiled—not happily, but the way one smiles at those returned from war.
"You can be the Monk, you can be God, you can be the Architect of this glass paradise. Но to me, you are the man holding my hand in the darkness of 0:59. I will support you. In your every calculation. In your every catastrophe."
Know that if this is a trap—I enter it willingly. (If this is freedom—I share it with him. In this world where a minute is an epoch, I choose to be his only eternal trace.)
Lev put the glass on the side table. His palm settled over mine, covering it with his coldness, which slowly began to recede. He didn't say "thank you." He just closed his eyes and, for the first time this evening, took a deep, real exhale.
"You have no idea what you're signing up for, Eva," he whispered barely audibly.
"I do," I touched my forehead to his hand. "I’ve already lived a thousand years with you in that room. Remember?"
Lev slowly leaned toward me. His face was now so close that I saw in his pupils not just the reflection of the city, but myself—a tiny figure against the backdrop of the vast window.
"You have no idea..." he repeated, and this time his voice didn't tremble. It became deep, enveloping. "I spent years building this interface to find the answer to one single question: can you pass the weight of your past to another person so that they don't break? I was looking for a carrier. An analyst. Someone who could decode my cipher."
He reached out and touched my hair with his fingertips, as if checking—was I real or still part of his simulation?
"And I found you. A person who doesn't analyze, but simply... remembers. You came into my world with your smells, with your scars, and this insane faith that the 'trace' is more important than the result."
(He says it as if I’m a virus he let into the system himself just so he could finally feel alive.)
"You're right, Eva," he smirked bitterly. "It was a calculation. I chose you because I knew you were the only one who wouldn't scream and run when they saw 'Zero'. But I didn't account for one thing. That when you place your hand on my knee, my whole damn calculation would crumble like that soap film at the boundary of the second."
Lev took my face in his palms. His fingers were warm now.
"I accept your 'trace.' If you are ready to stand behind my shoulder when the sky turns black, then I am ready to show you what is hidden behind the numbers. Not as your boss. But as the one who also wants to leave at least one long dash on the black stone—a sign that we were here."
(In that moment, I realized: the Architect had surrendered. The Monk had left the cell. We are no longer playing business. We are writing a story that cannot be erased with a Delete button.)
"Then show me everything," I whispered, covering his hands with mine. "Show me everything you’re hiding in 2019, in 2025, and in all your future lives. I won't break. I am your only interface with actual reality."
Lev silently pulled me toward him, and I felt his heart beat in unison with mine. In that second, Chicago 2050 outside the window finally turned into a stage set. The only truth in that room was us—two survivors who decided to outsmart eternity itself.
I entered the Tower. My palm settled onto the scanner by habit.
"Good morning, Eva," the soft voice of the AI responded.
Inside the office, the life Lev Arden called "business-business" was in full swing. After an endless meeting in the "Glass Cube," once the last investor had left the hall, Lev approached me.
"Stay," he muttered curtly.
He led me to Laboratory Zero. There were no windows there, only soft light. Lev ordered the staff to leave and stepped up to the control panel of the "God Interface" himself. His fingers were precise, but I saw him freeze for a split second before attaching the sensors to my temples. He had already been there. He knew what was about to happen.
"Fifty-nine seconds, Eva," he whispered. "Exactly one minute."
Lev’s world vanished.
The Minute-Room as Eternity
I step through a door marked 13:49—and I hear a mechanism click somewhere far away. It’s not loud like an old clock, but dry, like a life-support machine. Click—and the seconds begin to spread like molten glass. They stretch, thin and sticky, and suddenly you realize: here, a minute is an epoch. Sixty sections of a thousand years each, and every second is a separate continent.
The first second smells of damp earth and iron. I take a breath—and mist rises from dark clay; from the mist, veins of water; from the water, sprouts. They grow before my eyes as if someone were filming cosmic-speed stop-motion: stems break through the bark of time, wet leaves unfurl, and suddenly the grasses are rustling like paper. A second breath—and warm creatures move along the slopes: small bodies with amber eyes, the sound of soft paws, rustles that do not yet know the word "fear." I do nothing—I am a witness, and being a witness hurts: every cell itches with the urge to intervene.
At mark 0:03, the sky turns milky and heavy for the first time, and threads descend from it—thin as hair. At first, I take them for rain, but it’s not water. It is writing. Every thread carries symbols, just as a DNA spiral carries codes. The threads fall to the ground, disintegrating, and where they touch the soil, words arise, and from words—people. They rise—black hair, narrow shoulders, bare feet—and immediately look up, to where a massive, white, silent clock face hangs. In its center is a motionless hand. I understand: these people were born into the temple of the minute. Their god is the countdown.
Cities grow out of habits. First, they build hearths at the base of the clock hand, then circular houses like layers of an onion, then walls with niches for candles, a library of stone tablets, and a tower where the "Listeners" reside. Listeners are those who can translate the whisper of minutes into human words. I don’t need a translation—I hear it instantly. I hear the minute whispering about the end: not loudly, but at low frequencies, beneath the hum of markets and children's games.
I want to warn them—but my mouth produces no sound. Eternity robs you of your voice: here, one can only write with their body. I learn to leave traces: thin white scars appear on my skin—an alphabet that can only be read with fingers. I let the children touch my hands, and they learn to understand: "we have little minute left."
At 0:10, they invent glass. At 0:12—optics. At 0:15—they build the first observatory, filled with tubes that look not at the stars (there are only three, repeating in a cycle), but at the edge of the sector—the boundary of the second. There is a film there, thin as a soap bubble, and beyond it—a blank field. They call it Zero. A student of the Listeners, a boy with black eyelashes, brings me a quartz plate in which they have caught the dust of Zero. The dust doesn't glint. It has no smell. In my hands, it is weightless, like a good excuse.
By 0:20, ceremonies become complex. A bell appears in the square that cannot be struck—it will strike itself when the hand at the end of the second shifts by an invisible fraction. They know it will happen; they just don’t know how many of these centuries they have left. Their faith is geometry without numbers.
I love one woman. Her name is Arya. She is a sculptor: she carves poses of waiting out of stone. Her palms repeat the same gesture over and over—as if lifting an invisible face to be seen. She laughs rarely, but when she does, her teeth clatter like the teeth of a gear. We sit by the wall and listen to the hot wind blow. I don’t tell her that the end is hardcoded—I have no right to turn her eternity into my warning. I only ask her to touch my scars—that is how I leave the word "trace" in her memory.
By 0:30, a language of light is born. They learn to send beams to the very edge of the second and reflect them back into the heart of the city. These beams carry images of futures that will never happen here but can be imagined: voiceless machines, salt gardens, cities built on whale bones—everything that keeps the nerves alive when the shiver of the end crawls over the skin. The beams draw plans for bridges to Zero. The bridges break—again and again. But the people never stop imagining. It is the only material that doesn't crack under the weight of time.
At 0:35, the "Party of the Eternal" emerges—those who refuse to acknowledge the end. They build mirrored rooms where they can look at themselves forever, proving that "as long as I am, eternity exists." They hate the Listeners—especially me. I hear their knives being sharpened in the dark. At 0:37, they cut off the right ear of the boy with black eyelashes. So he won't hear. So we won't hear through him. He smiles at me without an ear and whispers: "I will listen with my skin." I kiss his remaining ear and feel the char in my throat.
By 0:40, Arya carves a stele—a smooth black stone without letters. We make an agreement: I will lie on the stone and leave all my scarred text upon it. The stone is heavy, like the silence of the city. My scars whiten when they contact the surface. The stone eats my words and grows warm. I fall asleep right on it. I dream of the bell.
By 0:45, the bell breathes. It draws in air—very slowly, like a chest after an injury. The square empties—people walk in quiet circles, whispering fairy tales to children where the end lives not in the last line, but in every verb. The Listeners do not sleep. We sit beneath the tower and read the vibrations: almost nothing is left. My insides burn: not with fire, but with the blue cold found in ocean depths.
At 0:50, the Party of the Eternal starts a riot. They smash the optics, scrape the black arrows off the walls, and twist the arms of the Listeners. I am tied to a post near Arya’s stone—so the "Quiet One" won't sow panic. I don't resist. My lungs move less frequently. Arya approaches me and raps her knuckles against my elbow—our signal for "I am here." I look into her eyes and see a narrow strip of water on the iris: she has an ocean inside too.
At 0:55, the boy without an ear lights a thin thread—a strap of light stretched from the edge of the second to the center of the square. It is the last bridge. It holds by a miracle: it has no supports, it hangs like a string. The boy takes my hand—the scarred skin sticks to the light with a crackle. For a moment, I see through Zero—there is white noise, like a TV without a signal. But in the noise, there are dashes, like pencil marks on a child’s height chart. These are the traces of minutes already passed. Among them is a thin white thread, very much like my name. I reach for it—and in that moment, the bell takes its breath.
At 0:56, I hear a crack—as if a massive block of ice has split from top to bottom. The city sighs. Personal bells begin to ring everywhere: dishes in houses sing, stairs bent under tens of thousands of feet tremble like strings. The Eternals fall to their knees before mirrors—the mirrors have no reflection. The Listeners lift their faces to the sky—black needles in their eyes: we see what must not be seen.
At 0:57, Arya stands beside me—not too close, so as not to interfere with the bridge, but close enough for me to feel her warmth. She places her palm on my heart—and for a second, the cold recedes. I know the bell will strike on its own—it needs no hand. I whisper to Arya with my lips (no sound): "Trace." She nods and touches her cheek to my shoulder. A salt mark remains on my skin—it will later become a line on the stone.
At 0:58, the boy without an ear tears the bridge thread and winds it around his elbow—it cuts the skin like live wire. He pulls it toward Zero, and Zero creaks. The creak is not even a sound; it is meaning rubbing against a boundary. For a moment, it feels like we’ve made a hole—a hair’s width. Through it pulls the cold of another minute. But this cold is not air—it is pure calculation. It carries no smells. It carries registers.
At 0:59, the sky turns black. Not "in the dark," but void of color entirely. The skin on my hands becomes covered in letters I did not write: Zero is writing its notes on me. In every sign—crossed-out names. I hear the city's last breath—thousands of chests together—and a long exhale, like that of dying seas. Arya looks at me without eyelids—suddenly her eyelashes vanish, like extra details being erased. She smiles without pain. For the first and last time, I hear my voice—it comes from below, as if from a cave: "I am here."
The bell strikes.
The strike is not a sound. The strike is a contraction. Everything that was folds into a point, as if a massive white cloth were pulled tight by a string.
I feel houses crumple, fates fold, stories collapse, and in the last fraction of a moment, they all pray not for salvation, but for the preservation of meaning. I feel my hand, tied to the light string, become a line, then a dash, and then nothing. But Arya’s stone—warm—holds out for a fraction of a second longer. I manage to press the last sign into it: — (a long dash). Maybe someday someone will touch it and feel: everything was here.
The fabric snaps—and I am thrown into the empty field of the next second. It smells of nothing. The whiteness here is not light or paint; whiteness is a mode. I stand barefoot on a smooth surface that does not resist my weight. I have no voice. I have no scars on my skin. I have no name. But in my bones—like tiny grains of sand—rings the city that is no more: children's laughter, the salt mark on my shoulder, the crack of mirrors, the breath of the bell. They are not words—they are a skill.
I try to remember—and memory walks on tiptoe, like in a museum at night. It doesn't want to frighten. I clench my palms—there is nothing. Then I lift my eyes: ahead are two more seconds and then... fifty-nine. Beyond each is eternity. I take a step.
The new air is clean as a scalpel. The boundary opens—the next door is already waiting. It bears a different mark. In the corner, the mechanism clicks again. And I—enter.
Reality returned with a jolt.
I opened my eyes in Laboratory Zero. Lev was standing right in front of me, his face deathly pale. Only a minute had passed, but I could see that in those sixty seconds, he had lived his own eternity while watching me.
I couldn’t speak. I just slowly reached out and touched his cheek. I searched for scars on him, searched for the warmth of Arya’s stone. Lev intercepted my hand. He didn't ask anything. He knew.
"Did you see them?" he asked barely audibly. "Those who build bridges to Zero?"
I nodded. Now I knew his secret. We were both Listeners.
For a long time, I couldn't focus my gaze on his face. Lev seemed flat to me, two-dimensional, as if he had been cut out of paper and pasted onto the background of this sterile room. The bell that "cannot be struck" still rang in my ears, and the skin on my hands burned from phantom scars.
Lev carefully disconnected the sensors. His hands trembled almost imperceptibly—a rare sight for a man who holds half the world’s IT market in a grip of iron.
"What was that, Lev?" my voice sounded as if I hadn't used it for a thousand years. "What does this machine actually affect?"
He froze, his hand still near my temple.
"In theory—it's biochemical overdriving," he replied dryly. "We feed data arrays directly so the AI can live through human experience in fractions of a second and become smarter."
I sharply pushed his hand away.
"Experience? Lev, there were people there. There was a woman named Arya who carved my memory into stone. There was a boy whose ear your 'Eternals' cut off so he’d stop hearing us. Do you understand what you've created?"
I stood up, swaying, and moved close to him.
"You created a world that is born and dies every minute just so your algorithms become more efficient. You are a God who indifferently watches an apocalypse every sixty seconds. You come in here, drink your coffee, look at charts, while inside there, an entire civilization is beating against mirrored walls, knowing their time is about to expire."
Lev remained silent, and in that silence, I heard the answer.
"You saw it too, didn't you?" I whispered. "When you wore these devices yourself, you didn't see numbers. You saw their fear. And you got scared yourself, so you hid it all behind the term 'side effect.' You force us all to live in this sterile Chicago while inside that box, the only real life pulses—the life you kill over and over again."
I touched his shoulder—the exact spot where Arya had left her salt trace.
"We aren't just accomplices, Lev. We are the only survivors of a catastrophe you launch every morning on schedule."
Lev said nothing. He just looked at his hands, the ones that had just been tuning the "God Interface," as if the blood of those who vanished with the last strike of the bell had suddenly seeped through the skin. In the sterile purity of Chicago 2050, his silence was louder than any scream.
"That's enough for today," he finally managed to say. His voice was foreign, broken. "Go home, Eva."
I walked out of the Tower, but the city no longer seemed like an achievement of civilization. The magnetic trains, the floating gardens, the flawless faces of passersby—it all looked like a thin film stretched over an abyss. I walked down Michigan Avenue and caught myself listening: would the mechanism click? Would the asphalt spread like molten glass?
That evening, I sat in my apartment, looking at the city skyline. The skyscraper lights blinked like sensors on Lev’s panel. At some point, the phone rang. No name appeared on the screen, but I knew the code.
"Are you awake?" Lev asked. In the background noise, I heard the wind. He was on a roof somewhere.
"One cannot sleep in this world, Lev. Here, a minute is an epoch, and we have too few of them left," I replied, pressing the phone to my ear so hard it felt like that very thread of light the earless boy had held.
"Come over," he said curtly. "I can't be in this silence alone. I'm afraid that if I close my eyes, the bell will strike again, and this time I won't wake up in time."
I stood under the icy streams of the shower, trying to wash away the smell of damp clay and iron. Water ran down my back, but I still felt Arya’s touch.
(If time is an illusion, why do my muscles ache with the exhaustion of ten passed centuries?)
I stepped out of the stall and stared into the fogged-up mirror. I wiped the glass with my palm, revealing my face.
(Still the same Eva. The same collarbones. The same habit of biting my lip when the world begins to fray at the seams. Could the God Interface not have fixed at least the dark circles under my eyes?)
I began to dress. No silk, no attempts to look "pretty." Jeans, heavy boots, and a simple black hoodie.
(Dressing as if preparing for a long flight. In a sense, I am. A jump from 2050 into his personal abyss is a flight without a safety net.)
As I laced my boots, my hand involuntarily touched my elbow. Right where Arya had rapped her knuckles in the "minute." The skin was smooth, but the bone inside ached.
(Body memory is the most honest thing I have left. Lev thinks he created a system. Но he just planted an entire world under my skin, and now it demands attention.)
The phone on the nightstand blinked again.
("Come over." Short. Dry. Almost a command. The Architect in him doesn't know how to ask—he just states his need. It would have made me angry before. Now—only a quiet smirk into the void.)
I picked up the phone.
(I’m going not because he pressed a button. And not because I’m a "good girl." Simply because I’m the only one who knows that behind his "Come over" stands the scream of a bell from which one cannot hide even in his flawless penthouse. To leave him alone now would be to let him drown in that very "Zero".)
I left the apartment. Chicago met me with its eternal neon hum.
(The city of the future is just a very expensive garland if the silence of "Zero" still rings inside you.)
At the entrance to his residence, there was no security—only sensors that recognized me even as I approached. The reader on the elevator blinked green. The access key he had given me back then—in another life, before the "God Interface"—worked silently.
(Funny. He gave me the key to the door, but today I’m opening a lock he never even planned to show me.)
The elevator rose to the top level. The doors slid open, and I found myself in the penthouse. No lights were on. Huge panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows sucked in the night city, turning the room into an aquarium filled with lights and shadows.
Lev sat in a deep armchair, his back to the entrance. He held a glass in his hand, but he wasn't drinking. He was just staring at the horizon, where the Chicago sky merged with the blackness of Lake Michigan.
(Sitting so still, as if he’s afraid the slightest movement will trigger that mechanism from the minute-room again.)
I didn't turn on the lights. I just stepped closer. Мои шаги по мягкому покрытию были бесшумны, но он почувствовал моё присутствие. Его плечи едва заметно расслабились.
"I thought you wouldn't come," he said without turning. His voice was dry, weathered. "After what I made you see."
I stopped a few steps away from him.
"You didn't 'make' me, Lev. You just opened the door that you walk through every morning."
(I wonder, did he expect me to start screaming? Or to faint? The Architect is used to predictable reactions. But I no longer fit his statistics.)
I walked around the chair and stood before him, blocking his view of his glittering empire. In the twilight, his face seemed carved from Arya’s stone—sharp cheekbones, dark hollows for eyes.
"There, at 0:59, when the sky turned black..." I lowered my voice to a whisper. "You heard that exhale too, didn't you? When everything we built collapsed into a point?"
Lev finally looked up at me. In his eyes, there was no "business-business." There was that very "solitude for two" that no algorithm can calculate.
"I hear it every time, Eva," he replied softly. "And every time I hope that in the next minute, something will change. But only the interface changes. The essence remains the same: we are alone."
I reached out and covered his hand gripping the glass. His fingers were icy.
(A monk who built himself a temple of glass and steel to hide from the god he created himself.)
I slowly lowered myself to the floor in front of his chair. My knees touched the cold polished wood, but I didn't look away. I placed my palm on his knee—confidently, the way a seal is placed on an important document. Lev flinched, but didn't pull away.
(Strange. The richest man in this sector, and under my hand—just a frightened man whose pulse beats as fast as that earless boy's at the boundary of the second.)
"Listen to me, Lev," my voice was steady, almost hypnotic. "I don't give a damn about what's in your reports. I don't care about investors, the Singularity, or how many billions you made on this hellish ride called 'the Interface'."
I squeezed his knee slightly, forcing him to focus only on me.
"Maybe everything happening between us is your flawless calculation. Maybe you calculated my every reaction, every tear, all these nights I lived through forgetting what sleep is, and this arrival of mine at two in the morning. Or maybe it’s all one big code error you couldn't patch. To me—it—doesn't—matter."
I saw his jaw tighten. In the silence, the climate control hummed, mimicking the breath of a sleeping beast.
"I know everything," I continued, the lights of Chicago reflecting in my eyes. "I saw the underside of your greatness. I saw the void you live in when the monitors go dark. And you know what? I’m not going anywhere. I will always be here, over your shoulder, even if you decide to burn this world to the ground in the next minute."
I smiled—not happily, but the way one smiles at those returned from war.
"You can be the Monk, you can be God, you can be the Architect of this glass paradise. Но to me, you are the man holding my hand in the darkness of 0:59. I will support you. In your every calculation. In your every catastrophe."
Know that if this is a trap—I enter it willingly. (If this is freedom—I share it with him. In this world where a minute is an epoch, I choose to be his only eternal trace.)
Lev put the glass on the side table. His palm settled over mine, covering it with his coldness, which slowly began to recede. He didn't say "thank you." He just closed his eyes and, for the first time this evening, took a deep, real exhale.
"You have no idea what you're signing up for, Eva," he whispered barely audibly.
"I do," I touched my forehead to his hand. "I’ve already lived a thousand years with you in that room. Remember?"
Lev slowly leaned toward me. His face was now so close that I saw in his pupils not just the reflection of the city, but myself—a tiny figure against the backdrop of the vast window.
"You have no idea..." he repeated, and this time his voice didn't tremble. It became deep, enveloping. "I spent years building this interface to find the answer to one single question: can you pass the weight of your past to another person so that they don't break? I was looking for a carrier. An analyst. Someone who could decode my cipher."
He reached out and touched my hair with his fingertips, as if checking—was I real or still part of his simulation?
"And I found you. A person who doesn't analyze, but simply... remembers. You came into my world with your smells, with your scars, and this insane faith that the 'trace' is more important than the result."
(He says it as if I’m a virus he let into the system himself just so he could finally feel alive.)
"You're right, Eva," he smirked bitterly. "It was a calculation. I chose you because I knew you were the only one who wouldn't scream and run when they saw 'Zero'. But I didn't account for one thing. That when you place your hand on my knee, my whole damn calculation would crumble like that soap film at the boundary of the second."
Lev took my face in his palms. His fingers were warm now.
"I accept your 'trace.' If you are ready to stand behind my shoulder when the sky turns black, then I am ready to show you what is hidden behind the numbers. Not as your boss. But as the one who also wants to leave at least one long dash on the black stone—a sign that we were here."
(In that moment, I realized: the Architect had surrendered. The Monk had left the cell. We are no longer playing business. We are writing a story that cannot be erased with a Delete button.)
"Then show me everything," I whispered, covering his hands with mine. "Show me everything you’re hiding in 2019, in 2025, and in all your future lives. I won't break. I am your only interface with actual reality."
Lev silently pulled me toward him, and I felt his heart beat in unison with mine. In that second, Chicago 2050 outside the window finally turned into a stage set. The only truth in that room was us—two survivors who decided to outsmart eternity itself.
Chapter 22
“There is no Wi-Fi here anymore—no algorithms, no deadlines. It smells of hay, of the year 2019, and of your perfume, which I remember to this day.
Look at your hands. There is no more code on them. Instead, there is that same warmth you felt when you first held that little kid in your arms. I remember how you held him, staring into the horizon as if, even then, you saw not just a field, but the geometry of the future. I saw your profile beneath the brim of your hat—a point of stillness at the very center of the approaching chaos. In that second, you weren't calculating the world; you were present in it. It was pure matter, not yet turned into information.
I have waited for you here for thirty-one years. You can remain in your Singularity... but your heart has always been on this page.”
“Now, return to Page 1 and discover how we arrived here...”
Look at your hands. There is no more code on them. Instead, there is that same warmth you felt when you first held that little kid in your arms. I remember how you held him, staring into the horizon as if, even then, you saw not just a field, but the geometry of the future. I saw your profile beneath the brim of your hat—a point of stillness at the very center of the approaching chaos. In that second, you weren't calculating the world; you were present in it. It was pure matter, not yet turned into information.
I have waited for you here for thirty-one years. You can remain in your Singularity... but your heart has always been on this page.”
“Now, return to Page 1 and discover how we arrived here...”
Chapter 23. Deep Freeze
The message arrived via the work channel—the way everything happens with Leo when it’s too official to be personal, yet too significant to be ignored. A single line, dry as a signature on a clearance form: Deep Freeze. Physical integrity check of media carriers. One day. No "please," no "is this convenient," not even a hint that this concerned the two of us. I re-read it and almost smiled. Almost. Because I already had the key to his door—and yet, every new "one day" felt like I was being placed on a test bench: to see if the circuit would hold. (I don't ask "why" anymore. We passed the "why" stage a long time ago.)
The invitation included coordinates, not an address. Coordinates always feel like a respectful form of control: you’re technically free, but here is your point, here is your time window, here is the air that has been chosen for you. Attached was a file: a pass, a route, an access card. Leo doesn’t like unnecessary gestures, but he loves it when the system runs smoothly. (Even his tenderness feels like an engineering node: precise, silent, perfectly fitted.)
The shuttle was small. Not an investor's dream, but a functional craft: matte metal, seamless panels, scentless leather, and polarized glass that made my reflection look like a stricter version of myself. On the armrest—a port with my name. On the table—a folder, a thin access card, and a small box containing gloves of such quality that you’d want to wear them out of spite, not just for the cold.
I sat down, buckled up, and found my hands automatically seeking order: straightening a cuff, placing my bag so it wouldn't shift during acceleration, checking my ring so the Clash spikes wouldn't catch the fabric. (Leo would approve: I become calm the moment I become functional.) As the city vanished beneath a layer of clouds, my body stopped pretending to be indifferent. The air in the cabin was dry, sterile, "safe"—neutral rather than pleasant. I took off the gloves, rested my palms on my knees, and looked at my fingers as if they were a dashboard. They are always the first to betray me. You can compose a face. You can set your shoulders. You can keep your voice steady. But the frequency beneath the skin is a negotiation where you have no vote.
I put on my headphones because music is the only interface through which I agree to perceive this "reality." Without it, the cabin feels empty; with it, it turns into a dense, vibrating fabric where every note strikes in time with my pulse.
I put on my headphones, and the world outside the window finally gained the right depth. The ascent began with Nils Frahm’s "Says": the shimmering soundscape filled the cabin, turning every kilometer of altitude into pure meditation. It made the space transparent, tuning me to the frequency of mountain air and icy composure.
Then, Ólafur Arnalds’ "Loom" came to life inside me. It was so beautiful and precise that it felt as though the melody had always lived within me, finally granted the right to be heard. It was more than sound—it was the physical sensation of being exactly where I was meant to be.
And as the final chord—Imagine Dragons’ "Warriors". A track that sounds not like a challenge, but like a recognition of strength. Beneath it, the clouds below seemed like mere scenery for my own life. They were white, dense, infinite—like a blank page where someone had already written your role, you just hadn't read it yet. Dark cracks of mountain ranges peered through, like lines on the Earth's skin. It was all too clean, too calm, too far removed from people. (Humans never look right next to eternity. We are too temporary.)
The landing was soft—almost imperceptible. The helipad looked as if it had been carved out of the landscape and hidden back in: no signs, no extra lines. The snow was blindingly white, aggressive: the light reflected as if trying to pierce through skin. The cold air hit my lungs sharply, cleanly—like a short circuit. Everything became clearer. (A strange feeling: the harsher it is outside, the less room there is to pretend inside.)
I wasn't met by people, but by protocol. The door opened on its own, a scanner read my card, and light guided me down the corridor. I heard my own steps: first on the fine gravel that crunched quietly, then on the polished stone—deep indigo, reflecting everything you’d rather not see. The sound wasn't loud, but attentive, as if the building were recording every detail. (If I had a secret to hide, I’d choose a place where everything is heard and no one cares.)
Leo appeared exactly when he was supposed to. He stood at the entrance—one of those rare moments when his presence wasn't crowded by staff. He wore dark cashmere and a perfectly fitted insulated jacket—neither sporty nor touristy, the kind that makes you look like the owner of the temperature. His face was calm, without a smile, but I had learned to read more in that stillness than he intended. He looked at me, holding my gaze a second longer than protocol required.
"Did you make it okay?" he asked.
"No delays," I replied.
"There are no delays here," he said. It didn't sound like a joke, but like a law of the space.
He stepped closer, and I felt the air thicken, as it always does when he's near. Leo reached out and adjusted the collar of my coat—accurately, quickly, as if it were just a functional check, but his fingers lingered at my neck for a fraction of a second. Through the fabric, I felt his heat—not performative, but steady, like a signal that required no explanation. (This is what our intimacy looks like: not words, but micro-movements.)
"It's cold," he said, and it was almost like care.
"I’ll survive," I answered.
He nodded. "Let's go."
Inside Deep Freeze, the air was dry and warm—technically perfect. The contrast hit me: a transition from nature into a sterile mechanism. Walls of glass and metal, clean lines, flat light without shadows. The floor was polished indigo stone, reflecting our silhouettes as if there were depth beneath our feet rather than a surface. The low-frequency hum of the systems was constant—not loud, but felt by the body. Sensors clicked, and doors slid open with a soft hiss. Everything was tuned so that a human wouldn't feel like a human.
"Officially, is this a media check?" I asked, not looking at him. Disciplined. Professional.
"Officially—yes," he replied. "And in reality—yes."
"Then why me?"
He looked at me briefly. His gaze was like a scanner.
"Because you see with your hands," he said. "And you don't lie to yourself when you see."
I clenched my gloved fingers, making the leather creak quietly. (Perfect. He knows how to give a compliment so it sounds like a task.) We passed through security: glass locks, light that checked you in layers, scanners that read access rather than faces. In the distance, I saw people—guards, technicians—but they weren't "presence," they were part of the interior. Everything was arranged so that Leo and I felt alone, even if staff were formally nearby. (Isolation isn't the absence of people. It’s the absence of the possibility to reach out to them.)
The storage hall was like a library, but instead of books, there were racks of data. The temperature felt like stability. In the air—a dry note of metal and the distant hint of the glacier behind the glass.
Somewhere in the space, dissolving into the system hum, The xx was playing—some special, incredibly, looooong version, so infinite it felt as though the atoms in the air slowed down to the beat.
"Checksums," Leo said. "Section by section."
I stepped after him into the passage between the racks. It was narrow—no more than forty centimeters. Here, the air tasted of metal, and the silence was packed with bits of data. I felt something clawing inside. I wanted him. It wasn't just attraction; it was a systemic necessity—to break this sterility with something alive, under this long, hypnotic soundtrack.
Leo stopped. In this narrow corridor, his figure was a monolith.
"It’s too narrow here," I whispered, stepping close. "And too cold."
He turned slowly.
"Do you want to test the system's strength?" his voice vibrated like an echo.
I didn't answer with words. My hands moved to his waist. Beneath my heavy, fur-trimmed coat, I wore only a thin button-up cardigan. No lingerie. Just skin and this endless rhythm.
I knelt on the hard gravel. The dry sound of his belt unbuckling cut through the hypnotic music. My fingers steadily pulled down his zipper—the sound of metal on metal, short and final.
Leo let out that specific sound—a gutteral inhale. His fingers tangled in my hair, gripping tight as I took him. His breath became heavy and jagged. I could feel every micro-movement of his member. This was our synchronization—no interfaces, just the taste of his power and my absolute hunger.
When he gasped my name, there was more truth in that sound than in all his algorithms.
He pulled me up, pressing my back against the cold rack. My coat fell open, the fur rustling against the panel. Leo looked at my buttons, and his fingers touched the first one.
"You said you were cold," he whispered.
On a nearby shelf stood a transparent vase—technical, not decorative—containing a shard of ice: a small fragment of the glacier in a clean container, a specimen. The ice was bluish, with a trapped air bubble, as if someone had sealed another life inside. Leo reached out, without looking away from me, and took the shard. The cold light slid over his fingers.
He slipped his hand under the fabric of my cardigan. The shard of ice touched my neck, leaving a damp trail. He didn't stop. His cold fingers, holding the ice, found my nipple. The cold was so sharp that for a second, my vision blurred—a flash of white against the dark indigo.
Leo watched my shivering. He slowly circled the ice over my breast beneath the unbuttoned fabric, making me melt from the contradiction: the heat between my thighs and this unbearable ice on my skin.
"Experimental environment," he exhaled, covering my lips with his.
The kiss tasted of ozone and metal. We were in a data center where every breath was recorded, but in that moment, we were the center of the universe. I pulled him closer, my nails digging into his shoulders through his jacket, knowing there was no turning back. We were in the system, and this process could not be stopped.
Later, as we left the sector, he straightened my collar and fur as if nothing had happened. He spoke in his steady, professional voice:
"Let's move on. Next section."
I walked beside him, feeling the cold line of water on the skin beneath my cardigan, realizing one thing: we aren't "playing at intimacy." We are simply living in it.
We moved further. Leo showed me the nodes where metal meets ice. Yes, ice. The glacier was part of the wall: behind the glass lay the bluish mass, ancient, layered, with air bubbles inside like the world's frozen memory. It made everything absurdly beautiful: standing inside a glacier, discussing data carriers as if they were just files.
When reality is too vast, we save ourselves through symbols and terms.
The check took less time than the "one day" in the invitation suggested. Leo worked fast. So did I. We barely spoke—only what was necessary to maintain the frame. But the intimacy that day wasn't in conversation. It was in the way he would stop just ahead so I could keep up, how he adjusted his pace to mine, how his hand touched my glove when passing the tablet. Small, agonizingly precise details.
"Let's eat," he said, checking his watch. "Time is short."
It sounded as if lunch were part of the check. (Perhaps it was. Leo doesn't separate "business" from "life"—he just changes the interface.) The restaurant was built into the rock. Stone, glass, metal—minimalism without a smile. A panoramic window opened onto a white abyss. Outside, the light was so bright it made the glass look blacker than it was. We sat by the window. I opened the menu because there was nowhere else to hide my gaze: outside was the height, inside was him. I chose to look at the font. (Classic defensive behavior: if you’re scared, focus on the typography.)
The food arrived quickly. No "stories from the chef," no demonstrations. Just plates where everything was calibrated by temperature and texture: hot and cold in one bite, salt snapping on the tongue, the crunch of fish skin, the weight of cutlery in my fingers. The table was stone—cold, perfect. The cold saved me. it brought me back to my body. Leo ate calmly, like a man who doesn't waste attention on anything unrelated to the task. But he chose this table. By the window. One on one. No calls. (If this isn't an experiment, I don't know what is.)
"Do you know what's stored here?" he asked unexpectedly.
"Data," I replied. "Redundant circuits. The archive."
He looked at me a bit longer. "And that's it?"
"It's enough," I said. "Data outlives people."
"Yes," he agreed. "It does. That's why I sometimes wonder what outlives the data."
I slowly set down my fork. This was no longer about the media.
"Do you want me to say something... not from the report?" I asked steadily.
"I want to understand what you find valuable," he replied. "Outside the system."
I looked out the window. The white void was absolute. Just height. Against that height, human games looked small. (Height is the best antidote to someone else's power. Even if that power is sitting right across from you.)
"I value what cannot be simulated," I said. "A living choice. An error. A refusal. Something you can't reproduce like a test."
"Refusal of what?" he asked.
"Of the role," I said. "The convenient role. The 'ideal' one. The 'safe' one." (A small mistake: I said it and felt I was revealing too much of myself.)
Leo didn't smile. But something shifted in his gaze—as if he had caught a resonance. He reached across to my wrist and placed his fingers on the inside, where he had once held me so that the world changed frequency. Now, it wasn't a grip. It was a touch, like a mark: I am here.
"Do you know how to refuse me?" he asked quietly.
I didn't pull my hand away. I just looked at him.
"I’m trying," I replied. "But you have a way of making refusal sound like a betrayal of the system."
"Because you are part of the system," he said. "And you know it."
I exhaled. (Yes. Of course I know it, and that’s why this conversation is more dangerous than any touch.)
Somewhere in the hall, the soundscape shifted almost imperceptibly—and I recognized The Blaze’s "Territory" in a soft, nearly invisible layer. It was unexpected—in such a place, at such an altitude. But I liked it. There’s a movement in that music that asks for no explanation.
"You turn everything into an experiment," I said.
"No," Leo replied calmly. "An experiment is when you don't know the outcome. I know."
"That’s worse, because I don't," I said.
He tilted his head slightly. "Yes," he agreed. "But I know, and for now, believe me, that is enough for you."
We finished eating in near silence. The pauses between words were dense. I watched how his fingers held the cutlery, how he set them on the plate, how he moved his glass without a single wasted motion. This was stasis—his favorite form of control. But sometimes the stasis cracked: when he squeezed my wrist slightly harder, when his gaze lingered on my lips, when he seemed to listen to himself like he was listening to a foreign frequency.
After lunch, we returned to Deep Freeze. Processing protocols, signatures, brief phrases, dry confirmations. It looked like "just another day." Но I felt this day settling into me: the cold of the stone, the hum of systems, the smell of metal and ice, and the strange fact that today, Leo wasn't just my boss or my person—he was my space. (It makes you want to argue. It makes you want to be silent. It makes you want this to stop being a "check.")
The shuttle was ready. Leo walked me to the exit. Outside, the cold hit again—stinging, clean. The snow crunched. The handrail was icy. The fur of my collar felt like the only living thing against the white sterility.
"Thank you," I said. Short.
"For what?" he asked, and it sounded almost human.
"For coming yourself," I replied, just as shortly.
"I simply couldn't do otherwise," he said quietly.
In that simple phrase, there was everything. It didn't need decoding. It was his admission that he no longer knew how—or wanted—to do it any other way. Leo isn't the type to promise the world—he's the type to silently offer his shoulder when it matters. And that was his tenderness: being your anchor when the world feels too cold.
I boarded the shuttle. Sat down. Buckled up. Inside, the dry air again, the scentless leather, the glass that makes the world tidy. As the capsule lifted off, I looked down: a white void, the black dot of the complex, the lines of the paths, the gravel that surely was crunching under someone else's feet. I turned on Kiasmos’ "Looped" as a personal antidote to being "too alive."
The turbine hum became a background for a pulse somewhere inside. I reached into my bag for my tablet, but my fingers hit something else. Heavy. Cold. I pulled out a matte titanium cylinder. The metal stung my skin, and I instinctively gripped it tighter. Leo is consistent: even his tenderness is a high-tech seizure. I unscrewed the cap, and the shuttle cabin filled with that same sterile cold of Deep Freeze.
Inside lay a shard of relic ice. Bluish, dense, with a frozen air bubble that had waited thousands of years for this moment.
I looked at it and felt an ironic smirk touch my lips—lips that still remembered his taste. He hadn't left me flowers or a note. He had put a piece of the glacier his entire empire stands upon into my bag. It wasn't a "gift"; it was an anchor. A direct message: "I didn't just enter you—I left my mark within you."
The cold of the container seeped through my palm, mixing with the scent of Rose Cuir and that faint aroma of his skin that I seem to smell everywhere now. I closed the lid, feeling the weight of the titanium pleasantly pull at my hand.
I put the container back. The shuttle continued to gain altitude, the turbine hum holding the frequency. The music in my headphones worked as a frame. And in my bag lay his "trace," packaged in metal.
The invitation included coordinates, not an address. Coordinates always feel like a respectful form of control: you’re technically free, but here is your point, here is your time window, here is the air that has been chosen for you. Attached was a file: a pass, a route, an access card. Leo doesn’t like unnecessary gestures, but he loves it when the system runs smoothly. (Even his tenderness feels like an engineering node: precise, silent, perfectly fitted.)
The shuttle was small. Not an investor's dream, but a functional craft: matte metal, seamless panels, scentless leather, and polarized glass that made my reflection look like a stricter version of myself. On the armrest—a port with my name. On the table—a folder, a thin access card, and a small box containing gloves of such quality that you’d want to wear them out of spite, not just for the cold.
I sat down, buckled up, and found my hands automatically seeking order: straightening a cuff, placing my bag so it wouldn't shift during acceleration, checking my ring so the Clash spikes wouldn't catch the fabric. (Leo would approve: I become calm the moment I become functional.) As the city vanished beneath a layer of clouds, my body stopped pretending to be indifferent. The air in the cabin was dry, sterile, "safe"—neutral rather than pleasant. I took off the gloves, rested my palms on my knees, and looked at my fingers as if they were a dashboard. They are always the first to betray me. You can compose a face. You can set your shoulders. You can keep your voice steady. But the frequency beneath the skin is a negotiation where you have no vote.
I put on my headphones because music is the only interface through which I agree to perceive this "reality." Without it, the cabin feels empty; with it, it turns into a dense, vibrating fabric where every note strikes in time with my pulse.
I put on my headphones, and the world outside the window finally gained the right depth. The ascent began with Nils Frahm’s "Says": the shimmering soundscape filled the cabin, turning every kilometer of altitude into pure meditation. It made the space transparent, tuning me to the frequency of mountain air and icy composure.
Then, Ólafur Arnalds’ "Loom" came to life inside me. It was so beautiful and precise that it felt as though the melody had always lived within me, finally granted the right to be heard. It was more than sound—it was the physical sensation of being exactly where I was meant to be.
And as the final chord—Imagine Dragons’ "Warriors". A track that sounds not like a challenge, but like a recognition of strength. Beneath it, the clouds below seemed like mere scenery for my own life. They were white, dense, infinite—like a blank page where someone had already written your role, you just hadn't read it yet. Dark cracks of mountain ranges peered through, like lines on the Earth's skin. It was all too clean, too calm, too far removed from people. (Humans never look right next to eternity. We are too temporary.)
The landing was soft—almost imperceptible. The helipad looked as if it had been carved out of the landscape and hidden back in: no signs, no extra lines. The snow was blindingly white, aggressive: the light reflected as if trying to pierce through skin. The cold air hit my lungs sharply, cleanly—like a short circuit. Everything became clearer. (A strange feeling: the harsher it is outside, the less room there is to pretend inside.)
I wasn't met by people, but by protocol. The door opened on its own, a scanner read my card, and light guided me down the corridor. I heard my own steps: first on the fine gravel that crunched quietly, then on the polished stone—deep indigo, reflecting everything you’d rather not see. The sound wasn't loud, but attentive, as if the building were recording every detail. (If I had a secret to hide, I’d choose a place where everything is heard and no one cares.)
Leo appeared exactly when he was supposed to. He stood at the entrance—one of those rare moments when his presence wasn't crowded by staff. He wore dark cashmere and a perfectly fitted insulated jacket—neither sporty nor touristy, the kind that makes you look like the owner of the temperature. His face was calm, without a smile, but I had learned to read more in that stillness than he intended. He looked at me, holding my gaze a second longer than protocol required.
"Did you make it okay?" he asked.
"No delays," I replied.
"There are no delays here," he said. It didn't sound like a joke, but like a law of the space.
He stepped closer, and I felt the air thicken, as it always does when he's near. Leo reached out and adjusted the collar of my coat—accurately, quickly, as if it were just a functional check, but his fingers lingered at my neck for a fraction of a second. Through the fabric, I felt his heat—not performative, but steady, like a signal that required no explanation. (This is what our intimacy looks like: not words, but micro-movements.)
"It's cold," he said, and it was almost like care.
"I’ll survive," I answered.
He nodded. "Let's go."
Inside Deep Freeze, the air was dry and warm—technically perfect. The contrast hit me: a transition from nature into a sterile mechanism. Walls of glass and metal, clean lines, flat light without shadows. The floor was polished indigo stone, reflecting our silhouettes as if there were depth beneath our feet rather than a surface. The low-frequency hum of the systems was constant—not loud, but felt by the body. Sensors clicked, and doors slid open with a soft hiss. Everything was tuned so that a human wouldn't feel like a human.
"Officially, is this a media check?" I asked, not looking at him. Disciplined. Professional.
"Officially—yes," he replied. "And in reality—yes."
"Then why me?"
He looked at me briefly. His gaze was like a scanner.
"Because you see with your hands," he said. "And you don't lie to yourself when you see."
I clenched my gloved fingers, making the leather creak quietly. (Perfect. He knows how to give a compliment so it sounds like a task.) We passed through security: glass locks, light that checked you in layers, scanners that read access rather than faces. In the distance, I saw people—guards, technicians—but they weren't "presence," they were part of the interior. Everything was arranged so that Leo and I felt alone, even if staff were formally nearby. (Isolation isn't the absence of people. It’s the absence of the possibility to reach out to them.)
The storage hall was like a library, but instead of books, there were racks of data. The temperature felt like stability. In the air—a dry note of metal and the distant hint of the glacier behind the glass.
Somewhere in the space, dissolving into the system hum, The xx was playing—some special, incredibly, looooong version, so infinite it felt as though the atoms in the air slowed down to the beat.
"Checksums," Leo said. "Section by section."
I stepped after him into the passage between the racks. It was narrow—no more than forty centimeters. Here, the air tasted of metal, and the silence was packed with bits of data. I felt something clawing inside. I wanted him. It wasn't just attraction; it was a systemic necessity—to break this sterility with something alive, under this long, hypnotic soundtrack.
Leo stopped. In this narrow corridor, his figure was a monolith.
"It’s too narrow here," I whispered, stepping close. "And too cold."
He turned slowly.
"Do you want to test the system's strength?" his voice vibrated like an echo.
I didn't answer with words. My hands moved to his waist. Beneath my heavy, fur-trimmed coat, I wore only a thin button-up cardigan. No lingerie. Just skin and this endless rhythm.
I knelt on the hard gravel. The dry sound of his belt unbuckling cut through the hypnotic music. My fingers steadily pulled down his zipper—the sound of metal on metal, short and final.
Leo let out that specific sound—a gutteral inhale. His fingers tangled in my hair, gripping tight as I took him. His breath became heavy and jagged. I could feel every micro-movement of his member. This was our synchronization—no interfaces, just the taste of his power and my absolute hunger.
When he gasped my name, there was more truth in that sound than in all his algorithms.
He pulled me up, pressing my back against the cold rack. My coat fell open, the fur rustling against the panel. Leo looked at my buttons, and his fingers touched the first one.
"You said you were cold," he whispered.
On a nearby shelf stood a transparent vase—technical, not decorative—containing a shard of ice: a small fragment of the glacier in a clean container, a specimen. The ice was bluish, with a trapped air bubble, as if someone had sealed another life inside. Leo reached out, without looking away from me, and took the shard. The cold light slid over his fingers.
He slipped his hand under the fabric of my cardigan. The shard of ice touched my neck, leaving a damp trail. He didn't stop. His cold fingers, holding the ice, found my nipple. The cold was so sharp that for a second, my vision blurred—a flash of white against the dark indigo.
Leo watched my shivering. He slowly circled the ice over my breast beneath the unbuttoned fabric, making me melt from the contradiction: the heat between my thighs and this unbearable ice on my skin.
"Experimental environment," he exhaled, covering my lips with his.
The kiss tasted of ozone and metal. We were in a data center where every breath was recorded, but in that moment, we were the center of the universe. I pulled him closer, my nails digging into his shoulders through his jacket, knowing there was no turning back. We were in the system, and this process could not be stopped.
Later, as we left the sector, he straightened my collar and fur as if nothing had happened. He spoke in his steady, professional voice:
"Let's move on. Next section."
I walked beside him, feeling the cold line of water on the skin beneath my cardigan, realizing one thing: we aren't "playing at intimacy." We are simply living in it.
We moved further. Leo showed me the nodes where metal meets ice. Yes, ice. The glacier was part of the wall: behind the glass lay the bluish mass, ancient, layered, with air bubbles inside like the world's frozen memory. It made everything absurdly beautiful: standing inside a glacier, discussing data carriers as if they were just files.
When reality is too vast, we save ourselves through symbols and terms.
The check took less time than the "one day" in the invitation suggested. Leo worked fast. So did I. We barely spoke—only what was necessary to maintain the frame. But the intimacy that day wasn't in conversation. It was in the way he would stop just ahead so I could keep up, how he adjusted his pace to mine, how his hand touched my glove when passing the tablet. Small, agonizingly precise details.
"Let's eat," he said, checking his watch. "Time is short."
It sounded as if lunch were part of the check. (Perhaps it was. Leo doesn't separate "business" from "life"—he just changes the interface.) The restaurant was built into the rock. Stone, glass, metal—minimalism without a smile. A panoramic window opened onto a white abyss. Outside, the light was so bright it made the glass look blacker than it was. We sat by the window. I opened the menu because there was nowhere else to hide my gaze: outside was the height, inside was him. I chose to look at the font. (Classic defensive behavior: if you’re scared, focus on the typography.)
The food arrived quickly. No "stories from the chef," no demonstrations. Just plates where everything was calibrated by temperature and texture: hot and cold in one bite, salt snapping on the tongue, the crunch of fish skin, the weight of cutlery in my fingers. The table was stone—cold, perfect. The cold saved me. it brought me back to my body. Leo ate calmly, like a man who doesn't waste attention on anything unrelated to the task. But he chose this table. By the window. One on one. No calls. (If this isn't an experiment, I don't know what is.)
"Do you know what's stored here?" he asked unexpectedly.
"Data," I replied. "Redundant circuits. The archive."
He looked at me a bit longer. "And that's it?"
"It's enough," I said. "Data outlives people."
"Yes," he agreed. "It does. That's why I sometimes wonder what outlives the data."
I slowly set down my fork. This was no longer about the media.
"Do you want me to say something... not from the report?" I asked steadily.
"I want to understand what you find valuable," he replied. "Outside the system."
I looked out the window. The white void was absolute. Just height. Against that height, human games looked small. (Height is the best antidote to someone else's power. Even if that power is sitting right across from you.)
"I value what cannot be simulated," I said. "A living choice. An error. A refusal. Something you can't reproduce like a test."
"Refusal of what?" he asked.
"Of the role," I said. "The convenient role. The 'ideal' one. The 'safe' one." (A small mistake: I said it and felt I was revealing too much of myself.)
Leo didn't smile. But something shifted in his gaze—as if he had caught a resonance. He reached across to my wrist and placed his fingers on the inside, where he had once held me so that the world changed frequency. Now, it wasn't a grip. It was a touch, like a mark: I am here.
"Do you know how to refuse me?" he asked quietly.
I didn't pull my hand away. I just looked at him.
"I’m trying," I replied. "But you have a way of making refusal sound like a betrayal of the system."
"Because you are part of the system," he said. "And you know it."
I exhaled. (Yes. Of course I know it, and that’s why this conversation is more dangerous than any touch.)
Somewhere in the hall, the soundscape shifted almost imperceptibly—and I recognized The Blaze’s "Territory" in a soft, nearly invisible layer. It was unexpected—in such a place, at such an altitude. But I liked it. There’s a movement in that music that asks for no explanation.
"You turn everything into an experiment," I said.
"No," Leo replied calmly. "An experiment is when you don't know the outcome. I know."
"That’s worse, because I don't," I said.
He tilted his head slightly. "Yes," he agreed. "But I know, and for now, believe me, that is enough for you."
We finished eating in near silence. The pauses between words were dense. I watched how his fingers held the cutlery, how he set them on the plate, how he moved his glass without a single wasted motion. This was stasis—his favorite form of control. But sometimes the stasis cracked: when he squeezed my wrist slightly harder, when his gaze lingered on my lips, when he seemed to listen to himself like he was listening to a foreign frequency.
After lunch, we returned to Deep Freeze. Processing protocols, signatures, brief phrases, dry confirmations. It looked like "just another day." Но I felt this day settling into me: the cold of the stone, the hum of systems, the smell of metal and ice, and the strange fact that today, Leo wasn't just my boss or my person—he was my space. (It makes you want to argue. It makes you want to be silent. It makes you want this to stop being a "check.")
The shuttle was ready. Leo walked me to the exit. Outside, the cold hit again—stinging, clean. The snow crunched. The handrail was icy. The fur of my collar felt like the only living thing against the white sterility.
"Thank you," I said. Short.
"For what?" he asked, and it sounded almost human.
"For coming yourself," I replied, just as shortly.
"I simply couldn't do otherwise," he said quietly.
In that simple phrase, there was everything. It didn't need decoding. It was his admission that he no longer knew how—or wanted—to do it any other way. Leo isn't the type to promise the world—he's the type to silently offer his shoulder when it matters. And that was his tenderness: being your anchor when the world feels too cold.
I boarded the shuttle. Sat down. Buckled up. Inside, the dry air again, the scentless leather, the glass that makes the world tidy. As the capsule lifted off, I looked down: a white void, the black dot of the complex, the lines of the paths, the gravel that surely was crunching under someone else's feet. I turned on Kiasmos’ "Looped" as a personal antidote to being "too alive."
The turbine hum became a background for a pulse somewhere inside. I reached into my bag for my tablet, but my fingers hit something else. Heavy. Cold. I pulled out a matte titanium cylinder. The metal stung my skin, and I instinctively gripped it tighter. Leo is consistent: even his tenderness is a high-tech seizure. I unscrewed the cap, and the shuttle cabin filled with that same sterile cold of Deep Freeze.
Inside lay a shard of relic ice. Bluish, dense, with a frozen air bubble that had waited thousands of years for this moment.
I looked at it and felt an ironic smirk touch my lips—lips that still remembered his taste. He hadn't left me flowers or a note. He had put a piece of the glacier his entire empire stands upon into my bag. It wasn't a "gift"; it was an anchor. A direct message: "I didn't just enter you—I left my mark within you."
The cold of the container seeped through my palm, mixing with the scent of Rose Cuir and that faint aroma of his skin that I seem to smell everywhere now. I closed the lid, feeling the weight of the titanium pleasantly pull at my hand.
I put the container back. The shuttle continued to gain altitude, the turbine hum holding the frequency. The music in my headphones worked as a frame. And in my bag lay his "trace," packaged in metal.
Chapter 24. The Doctor’s Visit
Saturday began with a silence that cost a fortune. In 2050 Chicago, silence is the most expensive protocol, available only to those living above the hundredth floor.
I opened my eyes. The bedroom was flooded with light so pure it seemed filtered through diamond dust. (Admission: sometimes I think the sun works for Arden’s corporation—it falls across my bio-silk sheets at too perfect an angle and exactly on time.) The fabric crunched like fresh snow and smelled of ozone. No wrinkles, no traces of yesterday’s exhaustion. Perfect regeneration.
Music—something neo-classical, thin as mountain air—filled the space the moment my bare feet touched the floor. The smart-glass windows projected a utopia: Chicago shimmered with steel and the greenery of vertical gardens. A city-garden, a city-machine.
The shower felt like a calibration ritual. Mineral-enriched water washed away the remnants of nocturnal chaos, leaving the faint scent of "Molecule 0" on my skin—the smell of absolute purity, freshly laundered cotton, and cold metal. (Sarcastic comment: sometimes I smell so flawless I want to check myself into a lab for analysis.)
I walked to the wardrobe. Today, I didn't want armor. I wanted light that blinds. A dress of smart cashmere in a milky hue. The material flowed softly over my body, reacting to my skin temperature and creating a barely noticeable heat cloud around me. Not a single wrinkle. Not a single unnecessary detail.
Stockings made of the finest light mesh, which I put on slowly, with that particular sort of sadism one only shows toward oneself. Light suede pumps. They didn't touch the sidewalk—they hovered over it. Hair styled in a perfect wave—hair by hair, a shine like a mirror interface. In my ears—transparent drop earrings, resembling the frozen tears of an android.
I stepped outside. The air was sterile. Perfect people in high-tech suits passed by, exchanging short, polite nods. No one hurried; no one shouted. The city lived by a protocol of the highest etiquette. I stopped at the "Node-9" café. A robot barista handed me a perfect latte with foam as dense as ceramic. (I didn't even touch it; I just needed to feel the perfect cup in my hand.)
Near the entrance to the medical sector, I saw a floral module. Among exotic hybrids stood a bouquet of snow-white calla lilies, their stems looking as if they were cast in wax. I bought them for my doctor. Not out of gratitude—it’s just that this bouquet perfectly completed my composition.
I walked to my psychologist, smelling of freshness and perfection. I was a stark-white flash against the backdrop of this polished city. I was the embodiment of Arden’s dream of an ideal function.
Dr. Elias’s reception room resembled a clean room in a research center: plenty of diffused light and a total absence of shadows. I placed the calla lilies on the matte polymer table. White on white. (The gesture looked so graphic I wanted to photograph it and send it to Leo as a report on my "stability.")
"You’re glowing today, Eva," Dr. Elias smiled, and I noticed her gaze catch on my drop earrings. "A rare harmony for someone living at the Tower's pace."
"Harmony is just the absence of conflict between what you see and what you know," I replied, sinking into the chair. The cashmere of my dress rustled barely audibly against the upholstery. "Today, I know too much."
I began to tell her about my dreams—an endless series, lifelong. Slowly, choosing words like precious stones. (Psychoanalysis in 2050 is an attempt to fix a quantum computer with a set of screwdrivers, but we both pretended it worked.)
"The house was full of movement," I said, looking out the panoramic window where the Chicago sky faded into the color of cold lead. "But it wasn't chaos. It was... a metaphysical dismantling. You know, like in painting, when form disintegrates to reveal meaning? There was flesh, the doctor was always there, a Garden, groans, a demonic passion turning into destruction. And I stood there, absolutely calm."
Dr. Elias leaned forward. Her face in this perfect light seemed like a mask.
"And Leo? Was he in that mass?"
"He was the vector," I closed my eyes. "Leo is the vanishing point of all lines in this dream. He is the Architect who designed this collapse. I realized I don't want him to protect me from it. I want him to be my guide through this fire. You know, Doctor, in physics, there’s a concept of a phase transition. When a substance changes its essence under pressure. I felt that in the dream, he and I were undergoing this transition. Together."
I fell silent. The office became so quiet I could hear my own heart—steady, almost mechanical. At that moment, I felt absolutely transparent. As if my skin were made of the same smart glass as the Tower windows.
"You speak of him not as a man," Elias said softly, "but as a law of nature."
"Does it matter?" I opened my eyes and smiled my most "perfect" smile. "If a law of nature decides to destroy you, you either resist and lose, or you enter resonance and... fly."
When I left the office, catharsis didn't hit me in the chest. It spread through my veins like warm, liquid gold. I walked down the corridor, my suede pumps clicking in time against the sterile floor. I was still ideal, fresh, and bright, but inside me, that very flame was already burning. The bracelet on my wrist vibrated. A thin, sharp signal. A message from him.
“Finish with your visits. Come to the office. Dinner in half an hour.”
I felt the cashmere on my shoulders grow heavy, almost tangible. (For a second, I was afraid he had read my thoughts directly through the doctor’s neuro-interface.) I was lost in this ocean of my own purity. I needed someone to stain this perfect white cashmere.
The evening Chicago behind the office glass had turned into a scatter of phosphorescent lights, resembling the neural network of a massive, sleeping god. There was no overhead light in Leo’s office—only the living, "antediluvian" flame of candles flickering against the walls, turning his blueprints into dancing shadows. (In a world where everything is voice-controlled, an ordinary fire looks like an act of open defiance.)
Leo stood by the window, hands behind his back. When I entered, he didn't turn around, but I felt my skin record his presence.
"You look too flawless for a woman who just dissected her soul at the doctor’s," he said. His voice in the semi-darkness seemed thicker.
"It’s a disguise," I replied, walking into the center of the room. (My light cashmere in this intimate light shone so provocatively I felt like a foreign body in his kingdom of black glass.) "You know the rule: the more chaos inside, the more perfect the pumps must be."
On the floor, directly on the expensive pile of the rug, stood dinner containers and a pair of glasses. Only us and gravity. We sat opposite each other. I tucked my legs under me, and the silk of my stockings shimmered faintly in the candlelight.
"Why did you call me here?" I asked. Leo looked at me. There was no tenderness in his gaze—only that "terrifying attention." He was studying how the light fell on my cheekbones.
He moved closer. The distance between us shrank to a single breath. I smelled his perfume—cedar, steel, and something bitter, like wormwood.
"You were at the doctor’s today," he continued, his fingers touching the edge of my cashmere sleeve. "What did you talk about?"
I looked him straight in the eyes. Inside me, the meat grinder from the dream started spinning again, but now it was warm.
"About how I don’t want to be saved, Leo. I told her about the house where everything is torn to pieces. And about how you are the one standing in the center, directing the process. I said you are my law of nature."
His hand slid higher, to my wrist, where the pulse always betrays me faster than my face. He pressed the spot where the skin was thinnest.
"And what do you feel now?" his voice dropped to a low hum. "When a law of nature sits across from you and orders you dinner?"
"I feel that Chicago outside the window is a stage set," I exhaled. "And the real thing is happening here. В этой комнате. In this silence."
Leo didn’t whisper platitudes. He simply leaned forward and touched his lips to my neck, just below the ear—where it smelled of "Molecule 0" and pure cashmere. (At that moment, I realized my perfect morning ritual was merely a long prelude to this destruction.)
His hand, the one on "autopilot," landed firmly on my thigh, crushing the light fabric of the dress. It wasn't a caress. It was a mark.
"Accomplice, then?" he whispered into my skin. "Fine. Let's test your phase transition theory in practice."
The candles were burning down, wax dripping onto the floor. He turned me over, forcing my palms against the cold glass of the window. Below, a hundred floors down, utopia flickered, but here, in the darkness of the office, a primal dismantling was taking place. His teeth sank into my shoulder, and that flash of pain became the final point in my catharsis. I felt those "arms and legs" from my dream flying apart. I was disintegrating under his rhythmic, merciless pressure, and in that disintegration, I finally found form.
When silence returned, it was different. Jagged.
Leo didn't let me go. His hand still gripped my wrist, and his forehead rested against my shoulder. I saw my reflection in the glass—wrecked, hair disheveled, in a ruined dress. I was a perfect ruin.
"There’s your 'mathematics,' Eva," he breathed into my back. "There’s your law of nature."
I closed my eyes, listening to the city below continue living by its protocols, unaware that here, at the summit, we had just created our own universe. A universe with no rules. Only resonance.
The silence in the office became soft, like cooling wax. Leo stood up first but didn't walk away. He found my hairbrush—heavy, made of matte titanium—and sat on the rug behind me.
I froze, feeling his fingers carefully separating the tangled strands. He brushed my hair slowly, from top to bottom, strand by strand, restoring that perfect wave my morning had begun with. In this gesture, there was more possession than in the intimacy itself. He was reassembling me, piece by piece, restoring my shell.
"Now you’re ready for the system again," he said quietly, tucking the last strand behind my ear. His hand lingered on my cheek for a moment—a fleeting touch, stripped of its former harshness.
I adjusted my dress. The cashmere was wrinkled, but in this light, it seemed like a mere detail of the cut. (If anyone in Chicago notices I look slightly less "sterile," they’ll write it off as a new trend of "wild futurism.")
We stepped outside.
Nighttime Chicago 2050 met us with cool air and the glow of neon highways. We walked along the embankment, past illuminated gardens and silent patrol drones. We looked like the perfect couple from a corporate brochure: two beautiful, successful people engaged in a leisurely conversation about eternity. No passerby could have suspected that half an hour ago, we were burning each other to the ground.
"You know," I said, looking at my reflection in the mirrored wall of a skyscraper, "the doctor said today that you are a law of nature to me."
Leo smirked, looking ahead at the shimmering surface of Lake Michigan.
"Laws of nature don't walk along embankments, Eva. They simply act."
"That’s the point," I took his arm. His elbow was firm as steel, but he didn't pull away. "Walking with you after what happened is like walking arm-in-arm with a hurricane that has temporarily decided to become a breeze."
We talked about everything: singularity, how the city breathes through its filtration systems, his new sketches he hadn't shown anyone yet. It was a conversation between two "normal" people, but beneath every word pulsed the code we had just cracked.
I felt the clarity of the night air and the scent of his skin. The world was orderly, beautiful, and safe again. But now I knew: this beauty was just a thin film on the surface of an ocean. And I was no longer afraid to drown.
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