Three rhythmic chimes cut through the quiet of the bedroom. I stretched, fingers tangling in the edge of the duvet, and reached blindly for the nightstand until I found my glasses. Round. Dark frames. The world came back into focus. "Good morning, NELL." "Good morning, Claire," said the dry, level voice from the speaker mesh in the ceiling. "Your REM cycle concluded twenty-two minutes ago. You have been staring at the drywall since six-fifteen." "I was thinking." I swung my legs out of bed and started the daily search for the left slipper. "There's a difference." "The distinction is statistically negligible when your heart rate remains at resting baseline. The kitchen kettle has reached two hundred degrees. You are currently operating six minutes behind your projected departure window." "Optimism, NELL. I have a suspiciously empty calendar today." "Your calendar contains four meetings." "Exactly. Practically a vacation." "Optimism is simply inadequate risk modeling." "I love our talks," I muttered, and padded barefoot into the kitchen across hardwood that was entirely unheated and slightly cold on purpose. I had not networked the floor. There were limits. The apartment was bright, cluttered, and mine. An oscilloscope sat on the breakfast counter next to yesterday's mug. Three mismatched bins of wiring harnesses shared space with a loaf of sourdough. On the far counter, the toaster whirred when my phone crossed the threshold. Heavily modified. Completely unnecessary. Three weekends and an ungodly amount of firmware. I dropped two slices into the slots. "Light brown, please. Not golden. Light brown." "Acknowledged," the toaster chimed, its tiny screen flashing a color gradient before settling on warm amber. It served no greater societal purpose. It made me happy every morning. That was the purpose. "Also," NELL said from the fixture above the sink, "your reminder to replace the hall smoke detector battery is twelve days overdue." "I took the battery out because you wouldn't stop chirping about low humidity." "Low humidity compromises skin barrier integrity. I lack arms, Claire. I cannot apply lotion to your face. I can only inform." "Mind your business, NELL." I poured tea, took the toast, and spent four minutes hunting for my badge. It was under a stack of system architecture diagrams on the coffee table. Asteron smelled like industrial carpet, ozone, and air that had been filtered within an inch of its life. I scanned the retrieved badge, pushed through the turnstiles, and wound through the open-plan rows to Systems Integration. My desk was a fortress of triple monitors, tangled cables, and sticky notes that only made sense to me. I sat, slipped in one earbud, and pulled up the morning logs. This was the part I liked. A giant system was an argument made out of components. Somewhere inside it, something was always behaving slightly differently than expected. Finding out why was fun. An hour in, I paused on the facility and server logs. Same user ID as before. LHayes. Prototype Integration Lab. Badged through the exterior side door after nine, nearly every night for three weeks. Habits stand out when they repeat. I had seen the guy around the building, too—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair that looked like he ran both hands through it when something wasn't cooperating. Usually laughing at the picnic benches. Usually trading insults with Marc from Mechanical at the vending machines. LHayes apparently knew everyone. I made a mental note to check his ID against open tickets later, in case a stubborn bug was keeping him after hours, and went back to my queue. By noon the breakroom coffee had crossed from functional stimulant into battery acid. I surrendered and went downstairs. The café line snaked past the pastry case. I had my phone out, half in my inbox, half still chewing on a loop from the morning, when someone bumped my shoulder. The phone slipped. A hand caught it an inch from the tile. Another brushed my forearm, steadied me, and let go just as fast. "Whoa there," said an easy, amused voice. "That would've been an expensive introduction." I looked up. Picnic-table guy. Up close, the hair was just as tousled as it had looked from the courtyard. Hazel-brown eyes, crinkling. Dimple. Faded canvas work shirt, sleeves shoved to the elbows. He held the phone out, screen-side up. "Technically," I said, taking it, my fingers catching skin that was warm and distinctly calloused, "we haven't introduced ourselves." His grin widened, completely unruffled. "Good. Then this can remain an undocumented incident." "I appreciate the lack of paperwork." "Any time." A small nod, and he stepped up to the register like the world had never once been difficult. I ordered a cold brew and went back upstairs with a faint hum of amusement in my chest. Nice guy. Great reflexes. At my desk I did what I'd meant to do before coffee: ran LHayes against open tickets to see why he was living in the lab. The directory populated. Luke Hayes. Prototype Integration Engineer. Badge photo. Tousled dark hair. Hazel eyes. That faint smirk. Coffee guy. Below the name, flagged in red: Ticket 4187 — Hardware Diagnostics Access Request: DENIED. I remembered Ticket 4187. Some hardware engineer had wanted broader diagnostic access to a test rig than I thought the job required. I had denied it on security grounds in three paragraphs of exquisitely cited policy. He had replied with one line: Understood. We will ensure the machine fails strictly according to protocol. I looked from the sarcastic text to his badge photo. Luke Hayes. Coffee guy. Ticket 4187. I let out a quiet, dry breath of a laugh, closed the ticket, and went back to work.

Chapter 1: Working as Intended