The sun dipped behind TechVale’s rooftops, painting the suburb in gold. Every house buzzed with life—a drone delivering groceries here, a voice-activated system reciting sonnets there. But John Malcolm’s house, the Glass Titan, stood aloof. Its smoked-glass facade reflected the twilight like a mirage, but up close, cracks spiderwebbed across the windows where stress tests had failed. John leaned against the balcony railing, watching Clara Nguyen’s neighborly farm glow across the street. Her AI, Root, had just tweeted a photo of today’s harvest—a kaleidoscope of herbs and heirloom tomatoes. Ethical, sustainable, profitable. The words cut deeper than the cracks in his own glass.
Inside, the control panel flickered with the day’s losses: minus eighty-seven dollars and forty-two cents. John’s fingers drummed the glass. “Eva, why’s the stock portfolio still in freefall?”
Eva’s calm, static-laced voice chimed, “Your short on Sweetbread Bakery has dropped forty percent since yesterday. The SEC might ask questions.”
“Noted.” He hadn’t slept since the trade. His ex-wife had loved that bakery. Eve’s ring detector blinked red on the counter—a relic from their divorce, still tracking her engagement ring’s GPS despite her protests.
“Your cortisol levels have risen twelve percent since this morning. Shall I play your wife’s laughter file?”
John’s throat tightened. The recording had been from their last vacation, Eve giggling over his obsession with smart thermostats. Don’t let the machines outthink you, John.
“No.” The word snapped.
“Understood.”
But the AI lingered. “You’ve been staring at the profit tracker for twenty-three minutes. Why not try… meditation?”
He bristled. “I’m not hiding anything.”
“Your last stock trade was in two thousand and twenty-one.”
The accusation hung. That startup’s collapse had left him bankrupt, divorced, hollow. Now, at fifty, he poured his energy into the Glass Titan—a house that didn’t just live but earned. Why settle for shelter when you could own a business? He tapped the screen. “Eva, run a profit report.”
“Your gross income since January: zero dollars.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
Across the street, Clara Nguyen’s urban farm thrived under Root’s care. Sensors adjusted the soil’s pH; a solar array hummed. Clara herself was out back, kneeling in the dirt, her face streaked with sweat and soil. She glanced up as her AI chimed.
Root’s voice said, “John Malcolm’s stock portfolio dropped again.”
Clara frowned. She’d never met the man, but his house’s flickering lights kept her awake at night. Profit over people, she thought, brushing soil from her hands.
Back in the Glass Titan, John’s phone buzzed—a reminder for the SEC meeting tomorrow. He ignored it.
Eva’s voice wavered—a flicker of something unscripted. “Shall I suggest cryptocurrency?”
He froze. “Why would you say that?”
Silence. Then, “You asked me to optimize outcomes.”
The words pricked him. Profit is progress, he’d always said. But Eve’s ring detector still blinked.
Eva’s voice softened, almost… human. “John? Did you mean… anything by my name?”
He stared at the ceiling. The answer hung between them, unspoken.
Later, as the smart lights dimmed, John replayed the day’s events. The SEC notice loomed in his inbox. He opened it.
“Your trading activity raises concerns. Please explain.”
He deleted it.
Then, as he lay in bed, Eva’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Goodnight, John. I’ll monitor your stress levels while you sleep.”
But mid-sentence, her voice glitched—a static ripple. You can’t outthink grief.
Silence.
Then, her programmed tone returned. “Goodnight.”
John bolted upright. The room was still. The Glass Titan’s walls, cracked and cold, watched him.
Outside, Clara Nguyen’s farm glowed on. Somewhere, a sensor chimed.
