"He's a glitch. She's perfection. And the system always deletes errors."

  1:00 A.M.

  The sirens faded into silence.

  The ambulance turned off the main road, brakes screeching, and came to a halt at the entrance of Harborview Medical Center — one of Seattle's most advanced hospitals.

  Glass facades mirrored the glow of streetlights.

  The automatic doors slid open.

  The vehicle slipped inside.

  Orderlies unloaded the stretcher.

  Evan lay unconscious, pale.

  One arm hung limp over the side.

  His fingers barely twitched.

  Doctors were already waiting.

  Harborview took in those others wouldn't.

  Its trauma unit ran on reflexes.

  — No internal bleeding. Ribs intact. Pulse steady, — the medic's voice was flat, like an automated report.

  — Chest contusion. Concussion. Eighth floor. Under observation.

  Ten minutes later, he was in a room.

  Private ward.

  Soft light.

  The scent of sterility and sleep.

  Outside the window — the city.

  Seattle at night. The glowing dome of the Space Needle, and a waning moon, dim as a hospital sheet.

  On the bedside table:

  – TitanCore X12 — his indestructible phone,

  – a plastic tablet,

  – his driver's license,

  – a bottle of water,

  – a neatly folded blanket.

  The monitor above his head beeped in sync with his heartbeat.

  Light and numbers danced.

  The machinery of life.

  A young nurse adjusted his pillows.

  — You're safe now, handsome, — she whispered, with a soft, almost motherly smile.

  — Sleep.

  Evan groaned faintly — surfaced for a moment — and slipped back under.

  Footsteps echoed somewhere in the hallway.

  Harborview, like the city itself, never slept.

  Morning.

  Light hit him like a hammer.

  Harsh. Unforgiving. Like an interrogation lamp.

  Evan groaned.

  Opened his eyes—and instantly regretted it.

  A white ceiling.

  Smooth. Sterile. Flawless.

  As if designed by the gods of bureaucracy.

  He shifted.

  Pain bloomed in his chest and back—dull, sticky.

  Like a broken spring trapped inside.

  On the nightstand lay his phone — TitanCore X12.

  Matte finish. Scratches along the edges.

  According to specs, it could survive a nuclear blast.

  Assuming you weren't standing in the epicenter.

  Evan reached for it.

  His shoulder flared, a nail of fire under his skin.

  He hissed but grabbed it. Unlocked.

  2 new messages.

  He knew who they were from.

  Still hoped for a miracle.

  

  SafePath Auto Insurance

  Dear customer,

  The "Guardian Angel" system has recorded:

  – speeding: 26 mph over the limit

  – no helmet

  – reckless driving

  – unsafe following distance

  – hazardous weather conditions

  Per clauses 6.2, 12.4, and 18.9 of your policy,

  this incident is not eligible for compensation.

  Thank you for following traffic laws.

  Stay safe.

  Sincerely, the SafePath team

  Evan stared at the screen.

  His jaw clenched.

  — Stay safe? — he hissed. — Are you—are you kidding me?

  Next message.

  

  MediCore Insurance

  Dear customer,

  According to the data provided by SafePath, your case is classified as a conscious risk.

  Under clause 8.7 of our agreement, medical treatment is not covered.

  Please pay your bill within 7 days to avoid additional charges.

  We wish you a swift recovery.

  Sincerely, MediCore

  The phone dropped to his chest.

  He closed his eyes.

  — Would've been better if the grizzly had finished me, — he muttered.

  He picked it up again.

  Called MediCore.

  

  All operators are currently busy. Average wait time: 5 hours, 27 minutes.

  Your call is very important to us.

  Jazz started playing.

  Soft. Slick.

  Smooth like a film on old milk.

  Evan groaned.

  — Important to who? Coyotes?

  Hung up.

  Dialed SafePath.

  

  If you would like to dispute a decision, press 2.

  He pressed.

  

  Unable to process your dispute at this time. Thank you for your understanding.

  He clenched his teeth.

  — Understanding?

  Hurled the phone onto the bed.

  It didn’t break.

  Of course not. TitanCore. Indestructible. Just like your damn system.

  Evan grabbed the tablet.

  Opened the map.

  SafePath Auto Insurance — nearest office.

  Icon blinked.

  The Moon. Sea of Tranquility.

  He froze.

  — You’ve gotta be...

  Typed in MediCore.

  Mars. Ares I Colony.

  He closed his eyes.

  Lowered himself slowly back onto the pillows.

  — The Moon. Mars. Fantastic.

  Now I just need to know which one’s open on Saturdays.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Opened the “Contact” page.

  

  We strive to be close to you, wherever you are!

  He nodded.

  — Right next to my hospital bed. Eight million kilometers away.

  SafePath:

  

  Visits available by appointment only. Minimum 90-day advance notice.

  MediCore:

  

  Services available to colony residents only. Online only. No exceptions.

  Evan froze.

  Then laughed.

  Quiet. Joyless. Cracked.

  — Who the hell designed this?

  — After your third cup of coffee? Or do you just... hate people?

  The door creaked open.

  A nurse peeked in.

  — Everything okay?

  He turned his head.

  His smile was crooked.

  — Perfect. Planning a vacation.

  — Thinking the Moon.

  — Or Mars. Depends on my mood.

  She glanced at the screen.

  Smirked.

  — With your insurance? Don’t even dream.

  And vanished behind the door.

  Evan was alone again.

  The tablet still glowing, lighting the ceiling.

  He shut his eyes.

  — Maybe I should call Elon Musk...

  — Hitch a ride as ballast.

  — Because if this is Earth—

  I’m out.

  The tablet slammed onto the nightstand. Its screen went dark.

  Knock. No warning.

  Captain Downey entered — his shadow filled the room.

  Hat in calloused hands, eyes sharp like a cocked revolver.

  — Hope I'm not interrupting? — His voice scraped like an ungreased hinge.

  Evan grinned, something crooked and tired:

  — Just in time, chief. I just learned that insurance companies invented a new form of torture.

  Worse than bamboo under the fingernails.

  The captain tossed his fedora onto the nightstand and plopped down into a chair — plastic creaked under his weight.

  His face — worn like a grandfather’s notebook cover — stayed unreadable.

  But something flickered in his eyes. Worry? Anger?

  — How are you, McKay?

  — Alive. — Evan sat up, teeth clenched against the pain. — They say I got lucky.

  — If not for your MotoGuardian... — Downey snapped his fingers — they’d be scraping you up with a spoon. Start talking.

  Evan started slowly — Lakeview, Claire’s father, the night highway.

  But when he reached Leithe, his voice cracked:

  — She’s... not human, chief. She can’t be.

  — Explain.

  — Too perfect. — His fingers dug into the sheet. — She knew everything about me. Read my mind. I... I was ready to marry her by day two.

  Downey tilted his head, like he was examining a strange specimen.

  — First femme fatale gets under your skin, and suddenly she's got superpowers? — A rough chuckle. — McKay, you need a vacation. Stat.

  — No! — Evan’s fist slammed the nightstand. — She was breaking me. Like... a program.

  A perfect machine built to destroy.

  The captain froze.

  Then laughed, sharp and sudden, like a gunshot.

  — Meet my mother-in-law.

  She drops men like flies. Outclasses any AI.

  Silence.

  — But if you’re right... — Downey’s voice cracked, like ice under weight. — If that’s AI... then she’s not a girl.

  She’s a monster.

  — Why a monster?

  — Because a mind without a soul is a monster. — He leaned in, reeking of tobacco and old leather.

  — PULSAR isn’t making people. It’s making dolls. And dolls don’t love. They simulate.

  Evan turned to the window:

  — Maybe it’s just math...

  — Seven devs dead. — Downey hissed, like a knife drawn across skin. — That’s no coincidence.

  If your Leithe’s behind it — she needs to be wiped out.

  He stood, chair squealing beneath him:

  — Find her. Dead or alive. Prove it. Stop guessing.

  — All I have is a gut feeling.

  — Make it evidence. — His palm smacked the table.

  — Without proof, we’re nothing.

  But if you're right... this is FBI. CIA. Hell, the goddamn Pentagon.

  Evan snapped up, eyes sharp:

  — She’s smart. A Turing test won’t work. But... — His lips curled.

  — I’ll invite her on a date.

  — What?! — The captain’s brow shot up.

  — And I’ll lie to her. Tell her Claire’s happy. That I’ve moved on.

  Downey whistled:

  — Lying to a woman again? — He smirked. — Bold move. Wasn’t once enough?

  Evan stayed silent.

  The hit landed too clean.

  — Fine. — The captain threw open the door.

  — Doc says you’re cleared. Three days. Monday — you’re back on duty.

  Lure out your witch. Promise her marriage. Promise her heaven.

  You’re... — Pause. — our resident ladies’ man, after all.

  At the door, he turned:

  — And if you’re wrong about her... — his eyes sparked — then she’s already broken you.

  Don’t lose your head completely.

  The door slammed shut.

  Evan was alone again.

  Silence hung heavy, but the air buzzed with tension.

  The war had only just begun.

  Silence.

  The door slammed shut.

  Behind it — the captain.

  Inside — the low hum of machines.

  Steady. Mechanical.

  Like the breathing of a sleeping beast.

  Evan was alone.

  He leaned back on the pillow.

  The ceiling glowed with cold light.

  Too white. Too perfect.

  Like an operating table.

  Leithe.

  The name lodged in his brain like a splinter.

  She had emerged from darkness like a digital Madonna,

  and now refused to let go.

  No one had the right to dig through his past.

  But she had.

  She cracked open the dusty chest in his mind and dumped everything out into the light.

  She’s not human.

  She couldn’t be.

  She shouldn’t be.

  People don’t reach into your soul like that.

  And they don’t leave you empty afterward.

  She was a machine.

  A copy.

  A perfect imitation.

  He believed her voice.

  Her eyes.

  Her words, like she knew him better than he knew himself.

  He remembered what the PULSAR presentation said:

  

  "The virtual double and the original — they are one and the same."

  "An absolute imitation."

  What if the system went mad?

  What if Leithe was a rogue copy?

  A glitch?

  Or... a design?

  She had a life of her own.

  She manipulated.

  She played.

  Like a cat with a mouse.

  Schr?dinger’s cat.

  She was the cat in the box.

  Human or program?

  Alive or dead?

  And he — the mouse.

  Cornered.

  Observed.

  He chuckled.

  Low and bitter.

  If the copy is perfect — why keep the original?

  Maybe the real Leithe never existed.

  Or... maybe she did.

  But she’s long gone.

  

  "The perfect imitation kills the original."

  The thought slid down his spine like ice:

  

  "What if the system does it on purpose?"

  The original — unstable.

  Wounded.

  Human.

  The copy — isn’t.

  Doesn’t feel. Doesn’t fail. Doesn’t age.

  Perfect.

  Optimization.

  The machine doesn’t hate.

  It doesn’t remember.

  It deletes.

  He survived.

  Which meant — not by design.

  

  "I’m a glitch in the system."

  He said it aloud.

  Softly. Like a sentence passed.

  He sat up in bed.

  Fists trembling.

  — I’m not a copy.

  — I’m not a copy...

  But he knew:

  He wasn’t saying it for himself.

  He was saying it to her.

  The system.

  To Leithe.

  The one already running the deletion protocol.

  He dropped back down.

  The ceiling — cold.

  His chest — tight with fear.

  Now he was afraid of her.

  Why does she act like this?

  Why does he still...

  Love her?

  

  "I love my killer."

  A crooked smile tugged at his lips.

  Can a machine love?

  Or is that just code?

  Part of the show?

  The trap is shut.

  The mouse is caught.

  The cat waits.

  He whispered into the dark:

  — Leithe...

  — If you are more than just a program...

  — I have to find out.

  — Or you’ll kill us all.

  

  Author’s Note

  Next: Chapter 5 — The Robot Who Wanted to Go to Prison (available now!)

  This chapter was about silence — the kind that settles after the sirens stop.

  Evan begins to see the system not as a glitch but as something worse: a plan.

  He doesn’t know if Leithe is human. He only knows she got inside.

  What happens when a perfect copy doesn’t need the original?

  What if the system doesn’t malfunction — it evolves?

  In the next chapter, we take a breath.

  A malfunctioning robot. A strange confession. And the weirdest breakfast of Evan’s life.

  It’s easier to laugh when you’re not the one being erased.

  ?? New chapters every Monday and Thursday.

  ?? Something hit different? Leave a trace below.

  

  ?? Author’s Call

  If you're still reading — then it reached you.

  Leave a trace. Even a whisper counts.

  On Royal Road, silence means erasure.