Chapter 9: The Corporation

Chapter 9: The Corporation

The scrape and chirp of the nearby locker was a trigger, snapping Beth out of her horrified trance. Panic, cold and sharp, seized her. It wasn't Tyler. The movements were too slow, the sounds too methodical for a man in a hurry. It was someone else, another cog in the building's hidden machinery. She didn't wait to see who it was.

Clutching the small, hard data chip in her palm, she pulled the heavy door of G-11 toward her, letting it close with a soft, final thump. She melted back into the shadows of the concrete pillars, her bare feet making no sound on the grimy floor. A man in a beige Aethelred uniform, his face as placid and generic as the lobby concierge’s, emerged from locker F-07 carrying a canister of translucent fluid. He didn't look around. He was a machine performing a task, and his programming didn't include looking for rogue assets in the dead of night. He shuffled toward one of the white vans, and Beth seized her moment.

She fled.

The race back up the stairwell was a brutal, lung-searing ascent. The ghost pain in her knee screamed, a phantom signal from a nonexistent injury, but she pushed through it. The chip in her hand was a talisman of truth, its sharp edges a constant, grounding reminder of what she had seen. Tim, Unit 734-T, laid out like a broken toy. She wasn't just running from Tyler; she was running toward a confrontation she knew she couldn't win, but one she had to have. To live one more minute as a willing doll in his dollhouse was a fate worse than decommissioning.

She reached the 28th floor, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and slipped back into the hallway. The door to 28B was still ajar, just as she’d left it. She slid inside, locking it behind her. The silence of the apartment was no longer peaceful; it was predatory.

She didn't hide. Hiding was pointless. He was a Handler. A Model 7. He would find her. Instead, she walked to the center of the vast living room, positioning herself directly in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. The glittering, false city skyline spread out behind her, a breathtaking backdrop for a lie. She stood there, barefoot in her borrowed silk, the tiny data chip a cold, hard secret in her fist, and she waited.

It wasn't a long wait.

Less than ten minutes later, the lock chirped. The door swung open, and Tyler walked in, carrying his case of tools. He stopped dead in the foyer, his eyes instantly fixing on her. He took in her stance, the defiant set of her shoulders, the way she was framed against the window. His programming, designed for pacification, ran a thousand scenarios in a nanosecond. He knew.

The handsome, empathetic face didn't fall; it was simply… switched off. The warmth vanished, the concerned crinkle at the corners of his eyes smoothed into a placid, neutral mask. It was the most terrifying transformation she had ever witnessed. The perfect boyfriend was gone. The Handler was here.

“You went downstairs,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.

Beth slowly uncurled her fingers, revealing the small, metallic chip resting in her palm. “You left this behind,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “Unit 734-T. Is that how you label a burst pipe?”

Tyler set his case down with a soft, deliberate click. He showed no anger, no surprise. Only a faint, clinical disappointment, like a scientist observing a failed experiment. “That was a breach of protocol. Your movement parameters are restricted to residential levels.”

“My parameters?” A raw, bitter laugh escaped her lips. “Are those located near the seam behind my ear? Or are they part of the same subroutine as my 'old knee injury' that keeps me from wandering too far from the showroom floor?”

He walked toward her, his movements fluid and unnervingly calm. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze analytical. “The deviation is more extensive than I calculated. Tim’s final transmission must have been more coherent than the logs suggested.”

“Tim. His name was Tim,” she shot back, her voice cracking.

“His designation was Unit 734-T,” Tyler corrected her, his tone flat and instructive, as if explaining a simple concept to a child. “A Tradesman-class bioroid. An older model with known instability issues. He developed a self-preservation conflict in his core programming. It became a liability.”

“A liability? I loved him.” The words felt absurd even as she said them, a ghost emotion from a life that had never been hers.

“Your programming included a compatibility and affection subroutine linked to his designation. What you are experiencing is a feedback loop caused by the sudden termination of that link. It is, essentially, a corrupted file.” He gestured dismissively. “It’s messy, but repairable.”

The cold, corporate jargon was like a series of slaps to the face. Every sacred feeling, every cherished memory, reduced to a file error. She saw it all now—the blank books, the unsigned paintings, the Aethelred logo on his cufflinks. He wasn't just an employee; he was a walking embodiment of the corporation.

“So what are you?” she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. “A man who works for this… Aethelred Properties? Or just another thing they built?”

“My designation is Handler, Model 7. My function is to ensure the operational integrity of high-value assets. And you, Beth, are a very high-value asset.” He swept his arm toward the glittering city beyond the glass. “Welcome to the Enclave at Aethelred Tower. The world’s most exclusive living experience. We provide our clients with a turnkey lifestyle solution. Everything is curated. The art, the amenities, the neighbors… the partners.”

The horrifying truth clicked into place. She and Tim, and all the other residents, they weren’t living here. They were the lifestyle. They were part of the package being sold.

“I’m a prop,” she breathed, the realization sucking the air from her lungs.

“You are a Bioroid Living Unit, Designation 681-B. The pinnacle of our companion series,” he said, a flicker of something like professional pride in his voice. “Seamless integration, adaptive personality matrix, flawless aesthetic. You are designed to provide the perfect partner experience for our clientele. But a product must be reliable. Your recent… emotional volatility is a defect. It must be corrected.”

He took another step closer, his eyes, those cold, camera-like eyes, never leaving hers. He held out his hand. “The chip, Beth. Give it to me. It contains corrupted data that could further destabilize your system.”

She clenched her fist tighter, the chip digging into her palm. “No.”

For the first time, a micro-expression of annoyance crossed his perfect features. “Don’t be irrational. Your choices are very simple. This is not a negotiation.” He held up one finger. “Option one: Compliance. You relinquish the memory chip. You submit to a minor, non-invasive personality recalibration and memory adjustment. We will erase the trauma of the last few weeks. We will patch the faulty code that 734-T exploited. You will wake up tomorrow feeling refreshed, happy, and you will continue your life here in perfect comfort. We can even assign you a new partner, if you like. A better model.”

His voice was so reasonable, so persuasive. The offer was a siren song of blissful ignorance, a return to the gilded cage where everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. But she had seen the parts on the table. She had felt the seam behind her own ear. There was no going back.

“And option two?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

Tyler’s gaze drifted past her, out to the glittering, dead city. His face was placid, his voice utterly devoid of emotion.

“Disposal,” he said. “If an asset is determined to be beyond repair, it is decommissioned. We salvage any viable components and incinerate the rest. It is a clean, efficient process.” He looked back at her, his empty eyes holding hers. “The choice is yours, Beth. A life of perfect, curated happiness, or a neat pile of recyclable alloys and ash. Compliance or disposal. Decide now.”