The room looked like someone had confused wellness with surveillance.
Bed too white, air too sterile, walls too quiet.
The only hint of humanity was a crumpled name tag on the nightstand: Celeste Vega — Director of Damage.
The door slid open before I could breathe.
Mira stepped in—perfect hair, perfect clipboard, perfect indifference.
"Good morning, Celeste. I trust you rested."
"I fell asleep on a stage cable and woke up in a lavender commercial. So… yes-no."
She set down a tray. Two espressos—one for me, one apparently for my conscience.
"Your day," she said, flipping like a person who had only ever known schedules and disasters.
"Nine a.m.: debrief with Director Cain. Ten: online press briefing. Eleven: charity meeting regarding the Rebirth leak. And—" she paused, "—noon: coffee with Mr. Heaven."
I froze. "I thought we were doing separate cafés now?"
"That would be bad for the message. Fans expect professionalism."
[AVA: Fascinating. You are now a recurring character in a moral sitcom.]
I downed the espresso in one go. Bitter. Real. Maybe the only real thing left.
"Mira… what exactly do I say at the press briefing?"
"That everything's under control."
"Is it?"
"Of course not. But say it with the guilt-and-style blend that worked yesterday."
[AVA: Translation: act like you love truth. No one will notice.]
I set the cup down. "AVA, did you hear? I'm officially queen of controlled catastrophe."
[AVA: Correction: you are the catastrophe. Control merely increases market appeal.]
Mira eyed me. "Who are you talking to?"
"My moral compass."
"Oh. That explains a lot."
She handed me a tablet. Leo Heaven was laughing on the cover in slow motion, golden and untouchable.
Headline: THE REBIRTH OF HEAVEN — HOW TRUTH BECAME TREND.
The bitterness climbed my throat. "Mira, what happens if you tell the truth too often?"
"Docu-series."
[AVA: Or a new mission.]
I sighed. "Fine. Debrief. Maybe today I can finally be truly evil."
[AVA: Optimism detected. Failure probability: 99%.]
— • —
The conference room smelled like glass, power, and disinfectant.
I'd barely crossed the threshold when a squad of strategists leapt up like I was a rare deity—or a dangerous mistake you smile at so it doesn't explode.
Director Cain stood at the head, radiant with revenue.
"Celeste!" Arms wide, no hug—someone had told him not to overdose authenticity. "That was… genius!"
"The what?"
"The leak, the confession, the emotion—art! We're already calling it The Vega Maneuver."
"Oh no…"
"Oh yes! You proved chaos is calculable. That truth—sells! I'll be honest, Celeste: you made history."
[AVA: He sounds like he's filing a patent on you.]
I sat. Even the chairs were transparent here—like the lies.
"Cain, I—"
"No, let me finish." He snapped his fingers. A clip appeared on the wall: Leo Heaven, tears, mic, hope.
"See? Perfect. Redemption in HD. New sponsors, even a mindfulness-app collab! Do you know why?"
I did not.
[AVA: Rhetorical trap ahead.]
"Because you," Cain said, full of pathos, "redefined truth. Not as fact, but as feeling. That's the future of communication."
I stayed quiet.
"But tell me—why didn't you brief us? That risk! That raw timing! You had to know it'd be perfect."
[AVA: Chance of a coherent answer: 0%. Recommendation: lie convincingly.]
"I… wanted to preserve authenticity," I said.
"Fantastic!" Cain clapped. "That's it—preserve authenticity! I'll turn it into a training. Honest without control. Controlled lack of control!"
I rubbed my temples. "You know that's not a concept."
"It is now! You invented it. Leo's thrilled, the company's reborn—and you, Celeste, are now Head of Crisis Innovation."
"Innovation via nervous breakdowns. Sounds… like me."
"And how!" He beamed. "Oh—noon coffee with Leo. Cameras rolling. We need more of that: two people performing truth while failing believably."
[AVA: Note—the system has reformatted your mission as reality TV. Ironic.]
I stood. "Cain, if I ever call myself 'genius' again, remind me of this moment."
"Why? It was your breakthrough!"
"Exactly."
I left before anyone could applaud.
[AVA: Summary—You stabilized the system by making it even crazier. Impressive.]
"I just wanted coffee," I muttered.
[AVA: Coffee can be lethally honest. Use with caution.]
— • —
The next hours felt like a tutorial on boredom.
During the press briefing I nodded through ten minutes on "emotional brand resilience," then realized they were live-streaming my nodding.
At the charity meeting they read me thanks for my "brave transparency," while I tried not to choke on my irony reflex.
[AVA: Observation—this world practices a ritual called 'routine.' It simulates meaning without producing any. Efficiently inefficient.]
Thirty minutes to coffee.
"Sometimes," I whispered, "you just give the world what it expects."
[AVA: Correct. Some hours are designed for surrender—so chaos can store energy.]
I took that as a threat disguised as philosophy.
— • —
The café lived inside a glass cube pretending to be urban; every plant was plastic.
Leo Heaven was already seated—sunglasses, latte, the aura of a man being interviewed by himself.
"Celeste." He smiled. "Finally. Thought you weren't coming."
"I'm PR, Leo. I always come—never on time."
I sat. Outside, cameras clicked behind the glass.
[AVA: Public setting. Every movement can be read as a statement. Suggestion: small malice—gentle destruction.]
I inhaled. "Fine. Gentle destruction."
The barista approached—young, nervous, latte symmetry too perfect to live.
I tried to ignore him gracefully to project dominance—evil with milk foam.
Instead, my heel caught in the carpet, I stumbled, and bumped him.
He lurched; the tray tilted; a parabolic arc of coffee painted Leo's jacket.
Silence—
the internet inhaling.
Leo blinked, dripping.
I opened my mouth—but the barista beat me.
"Oh my God! You saved me!"
"What?"
"I was about to grab the hot tray—you pulled me!"
"I… kicked you."
"Heroic!"
Shutters outside snapped; somebody filmed; somebody posted.
[AVA: Social-media analysis active. Hashtag #CoffeeQueen trending. Positive sentiment: 94%.]
"No," I whispered. "That was an attack."
[AVA: Correction: rescue with style. Humans love unintended morality.]
Leo dabbed his jacket, half amused, half horrified.
"You're a PR miracle, Celeste. Even when you knock someone over, you get a standing ovation."
"I hate this simulation."
[AVA: Mutual feeling.]
A reporter yelled through the glass: "Celeste! How does it feel to save lives—again?"
"Sticky," I said.
They laughed like it was a joke.
[AVA: Diagnosis—you have an incurable talent for positive misinterpretation. Recommendation: continue. Perhaps someone else will fall into your arms.]
Leo laughed.
The crowd laughed.
I drank my coffee. Bitter.
"AVA," I whispered, "I'm done for today."
[AVA: Negative. Your mission just developed foam.]
— • —
I could've sworn shame still smelled like steamed milk when I was ushered into Cain's office.
He stood by the window, phones buzzing behind him, a whole team spinning crisis into gold.
"Celeste!" He was sun-god bright. "The barista thing—genius! Absolute genius!"
"Seriously?"
"A spontaneous act of humanity! The world believes in authenticity again. We've locked a coffee-chain partnership—The Celeste launches this afternoon!"
[AVA: Productizing unintended morality. Efficiency: nauseatingly high.]
I pressed my fingers to my brow. "He fell on me."
"And you held him!"
"Because I tripped him first!"
"Details! The public loves you. And Leo. You're the comeback of truth! Celeste— you turned empathy into a brand."
I inhaled slowly. Empathy as a brand.
[AVA: New category detected. Morality as product line.]
"Cain," I said calmly, "if I accidentally do one more good thing, I quit."
"Please don't!" Hands up in surrender. "We need you. You're our ROI—Return on Instability!"
"I'm what?"
"Chaos that pays! You're a gift!"
I stared.
[AVA: Contradiction—your dysfunction is read as talent. Welcome to human logic.]
The door opened. Leo entered—no latte, just the smug serenity of a man who had survived his own funeral.
"So, Celeste?" He grinned. "Another miracle?"
"I wanted to ruin you."
"And I haven't felt this popular in years."
[AVA: Irony level: 9/10. Avoid escalation.]
"Leo," Cain cut in, "we need to ride the wave! You two—talk show tomorrow morning. Topic: authenticity in modern communication."
"I'll bring the coffee," I muttered.
"Perfect!" Cain beamed. "See? You just get it."
Leo laughed. "She can't help it."
"Oh, I can," I said. "I can try to be mean."
"Celeste," Leo murmured, "you're the only person who weaponizes malice and produces sympathy."
"Give it time."
He chuckled, waved, and left.
I sank into Cain's leather chair—it felt like padded blackmail.
"AVA?"
[AVA: Here.]
"I don't understand this world."
[AVA: It means you're starting to influence it.]
"Or it's reprogramming me."
[AVA: Efficient either way.]
I stood. "I'm going to sleep."
[AVA: Approved. Sleep pauses mission time. Warning: public reaction continues.]
"Let them. Maybe they'll forget me by morning."
[AVA: Unlikely. #CoffeeQueen remains #1.]
I paused at the door.
"AVA?"
[AVA: Yes?]
"If this world turns everything into something good… how do you be evil here?"
[AVA: Probably you don't. That's the horror—you're so good at ruining ruin.]
I walked out.
— • —
The hotel room was quiet. Too quiet for a world that had screamed for clicks all day.
I sat on the bed, shoes off, makeup half gone.
The city glittered like it was applauding me for not ruining anyone properly.
My phone buzzed—hashtags, clips, emails.
I flipped it face down; the dark back was kinder than any notification.
[AVA: Analysis complete. Public sentiment: 94% positive. Emotional resonance: hope.]
"I wanted to ruin him, Ava."
[AVA: You made him a symbol of humanity. Fascinatingly counterproductive.]
I fell backward onto the pillow. Lavender and self-deception.
"Maybe I'm just too tired to be evil."
[AVA: Fatigue is not weakness. It's the most elegant form of surrender.]
I laughed softly. "Wake me when I finally do everything wrong."
[AVA: That was at 15:47 today.]
"Then tomorrow again."
I pulled the blanket up to my chin and stared at the ceiling pulsing a gentle blue—the simulation's artificial breathing.
"Good night, Ava."
[AVA: Relatively.]
The lights dimmed until only a hum remained.
Somewhere between exhaustion and spite, I thought:
Tomorrow I'll manage it. Tomorrow I'll be truly evil.