“Protocol?” Tymon’s voice was a soft exhalation. He pulled his hand back further, as if burned by the brief contact. The cheese-smeared slice still dangled from her fingers, a defiant splash of orange against the stark white of her high-collared tunic. He swallowed, the air suddenly thick. “There… there isn’t one. For that. Just… human decency.” Zofia blinked, her gaze still fixed on his retreating hand, then slowly rising to meet his eyes. Her expression, usually an unreadable mask of corporate composure, was fractured, a mosaic of confusion and something akin to disbelief. She looked down at the pizza, then back at him, as if evaluating a newly discovered data anomaly. “Human decency,” she repeated, the words unfamiliar on her tongue, an algorithm she hadn’t encountered before. “Is that… a known variable?” Before Tymon could formulate a response, Byt let out a sudden, ear-splitting squawk that seemed to contain a note of pure, unadulterated exasperation. The macaw hopped off the counter, flapping its massive wings, then settled onto Tymon’s shoulder, nudging his ear with its large, dark beak. “Inefficient data packet!” Byt screeched, mimicking Zofia’s earlier dismissal, then followed it with a surprisingly accurate imitation of Tymon’s surprised gasp. Tymon laughed, a genuine, unforced sound that cut through the lingering tension. He reached up, scratching Byt’s head. “Alright, alright, you little mimic. No need to rub it in.” Zofia watched them, her posture stiff, the forgotten pizza still in hand. The laughter, the easy physical contact between man and bird, the shared moment of lightheartedness – it was an alien language to her. Her eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in intense, analytical observation. Tymon, completely oblivious, continued to engage Byt, gently murmuring to the bird, offering it a small piece of a nut he’d produced from his pocket. The sight of them, so comfortable, so openly affectionate, stirred something deep and unsettling within Zofia. Her grip tightened on the pizza. The perfect, sterile contours of her apartment seemed to waver, replaced by the ghost of another, long-ago room, filled not with silence, but with the buzzing anticipation of a thousand eager minds. *** The air hummed with nervous tension and expectation. Eighteen-year-old Zofia Orlecka stood backstage, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. The convention hall beyond the velvet curtain throbbed with the murmur of a thousand attendees at the inaugural ‘FutureForge Innovators Summit’ in Neo-Kraków. This was it. Years of solitary coding, fueled by lukewarm instant coffee and an unwavering belief, culminating in this single, pivotal moment. “Nervous, Zofia?” A hand, heavy and familiar, dropped onto her collarbone. Marek Jędrzejczyk, her mentor, her business partner, her almost-father-figure, offered a wide, encouraging smile. His perfectly tailored suit seemed to shimmer under the stage lights. “You’ll be brilliant. We’ll be brilliant.” Zofia managed a weak smile in return. “I just… I want it to be perfect. The system isn’t just an algorithm, Marek. It’s… a bridge. Between thought and action, without the clutter of interface.” Marek gripped her arm again. “And you built that bridge, my dear. Now, go show them.” She walked onto the stage, the bright spotlights momentarily blinding her. A hush fell over the crowd. She adjusted the microphone, her fingers unsteady against the metal, then looked out at the sea of faces, her vision slowly adjusting to the glare. She saw the expectant gazes, the eager expressions of industry titans and curious investors. Her throat tightened, but then she remembered Marek’s words. *You built that bridge.* She took a deep breath, picturing the complex lines of code, the elegant solution to a problem no one else had dared to tackle. “Good morning, esteemed innovators,” she began, her voice gaining strength with each word, the carefully rehearsed rhythm taking over. “My name is Zofia Orlecka, and alongside my esteemed partner, Marek Jędrzejczyk, I am here to introduce you to the future of neural interfacing: CortexLink.” She moved with practiced grace to the holographic display, her fingers dancing over the controls, bringing to life the shimmering, interconnected pathways of her groundbreaking algorithm. She explained the architecture, the unprecedented speed, the seamless integration. Her passion, usually guarded, spilled out, gripping the room. She could feel the listeners leaning forward, captivated. “And now,” she announced, a triumphant note in her voice, “for a live demonstration. My partner, Marek, will now showcase CortexLink’s direct neural command capabilities. Marek?” She turned, a proud smile on her face, expecting to see him step forward, ready to execute the pre-programmed commands she’d wired into his test rig. But Marek was already at the auxiliary podium, a separate, sleek microphone appearing from the floor. His smile was still wide, but it held a new, chilling glint. He adjusted his glasses, looking directly at the audience, bypassing Zofia entirely. “Thank you, Zofia, for that… foundational overview,” Marek said, his voice smooth, confident, utterly devoid of acknowledgment. “Indeed, this architecture represents years of tireless research. My research. I am immensely proud to finally unveil this project, which I have personally spearheaded.” Zofia froze in place. The words struck like physical blows. *My research. I have personally spearheaded.* The air seemed to rush out of her lungs. She stared, uncomprehending, as Marek began to execute the demonstration himself, performing the very actions they had rehearsed, but with a narrative that had entirely erased her. “As you can see,” Marek continued, his voice resonating through the hall, “the direct neural input allows for unparalleled precision and speed. A revolutionary leap, born from a singular vision.” He gestured, not to Zofia, but to the holographic display, which now seemed to hum solely for him. Whispers began to ripple through the auditorium. A few heads turned towards Zofia, then quickly back to Marek, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere. Humiliation, hot and searing, flooded her. Her vision blurred, the bright lights now a suffocating shroud. She stood frozen, a statue of betrayal and disbelief, as her entire world crumbled around her, publicly, irrevocably. She didn’t remember leaving the stage. She only remembered the frantic, desperate scramble out of the building, the burning sting of tears she refused to shed. The city lights of Neo-Kraków blurred into streaks of indifferent color. She found herself in her small, sterile hotel room, the only sound the frantic chirping of the small, blue-feathered macaw she’d impulsively purchased from a back-alley pet store a few weeks prior. She’d named him Byt, meaning ‘Being,’ a desperate anchor to something real. Byt, still a fledgling, hopped onto her shoulder, nudging her cheek with his soft head, a small, comforting weight. He chattered softly, sensing her distress. “He took it, Byt,” she whispered, her voice raw, cracking. “Everything. Years. He just… took it.” A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek. Byt nudged it with his beak. She looked into the bird’s intelligent, dark eyes, the only creature in the world who witnessed her undoing. “Never again,” she vowed, her voice trembling but firm. “Never trust. Never be vulnerable. Emotions are a flaw in the system. A bug to be patched.” She pulled Byt closer, burying her face in his soft feathers, feeling the small, steady beat of his heart. “You’re the only one, Byt. The only one I’ll ever trust.” *** The present returned abruptly. The pristine lines of her penthouse, the soft, playful murmurs of Tymon and Byt, the lingering scent of cheese. Zofia stood rooted, the uneaten pizza still clutched in her hand. She watched Tymon scratch Byt under the chin, the macaw leaning into the touch, a soft rumble emanating from its throat. A profound conflict warred within her. This man, with his earnest eyes and gentle hands, was systematically dismantling the carefully constructed firewall around her heart. He was making her feel again. Making her vulnerable. And for the first time in years, she couldn’t decide if it was a threat or a salvation.

Flashback: The First Glitch