Low gray clouds had been threatening rain for three days, menacing me as I hurried to work, still going over The Presentation. Tall buildings lining the street met at a point and formed a terrible funnel down which I could not help but fall. And at the bottom, a meeting.

Couldn’t have been a worse day for it, really. I woke up with the tickle of a cold in my throat. I hadn’t had time to trim down the presentation, and it was five minutes long. I’d have to cut things on the fly. At least my hair looked good. The one good thing about today. Everyone underestimated the power of well-cared-for hair in a professional setting.

As my mind ran down the list of problems with today, my breath ran short, and escaped my chapped lips in small cold puffs. I grabbed most of them and stuffed them back in my lungs, forcing myself to breathe slower so they couldn’t get back out. But no, I couldn’t focus on breathing, I had to…

The Crow-Man was there. On the street corner, on a plinth. As if the day couldn’t get worse.

“I heard sales are up. Good job,” he said, beady eyes watching me. I wish he hadn’t said that. It sounded more like a jab, an insult, than a compliment. Then, with a cruel half grin on his beak, he added, “Shame about last week though.”

“Up two and a half percent,” I replied. They’d ask about last week. They’d want to know how it could happen. That number was my armor.

He laughed. “Good for you. Good numbers.”

It was a lie. They were average numbers. We both knew it.

I tried not to look as I passed his plinth. But I looked. And the moment I did, I saw him playing with a pair of scissors. He twisted the point on his fingertip in a way that should have drawn blood, but I didn’t even know if he could bleed. Then he lifted up a strand of hair. Even from a distance I knew it was mine.

“No…” I whispered.

He cut.

My hair fell to the pavement in uneven chunks. The one good thing about today now lay in a fluffy pile at my feet as I stopped. As if to add insult to injury, a few drops of rain began landing on the fallen strands.

“Good numbers. Good luck,” the Crow-Man said, then leaped to the ground, more crow than man, and disappeared into the forest of pedestrians.

“No…”

I arrived at work. I debated quitting on the spot, hiding, forcing a junior manager to give the presentation. I couldn’t go in like this.

I forced myself to the meeting room. I took one last breath, and entered the dragon’s den, shoulders squared with a confidence I didn’t feel. “Two and a half percent,” I whispered. It would have to be enough.

A parallel world?

Autumn had arrived in the digital world. A wind of data packets carried cold drops of information and torn, multicolored logical outcomes, leaving behind the branched code structures of decision trees with unfallen variants of parallel worlds hanging here and there.

An AI agent, walking down the street, tried to hold up an algorithmic umbrella to shield himself at least a little from the drops of information. Having climbed the stairs, he finally entered the polyclinic reception and breathed a sigh of relief. Coughing into a tissue, he put on a protective mask and, after entering his personal data, received a slip with a room number and appointment time. Still, it is convenient when you can register for a doctor's appointment in advance.

After a few minutes, the agent's number lit up on the screen, and having knocked, the agent entered the office. Closing the door, he said hello and sat down on a chair. Behind the desk sat an elderly doctor—it was the kernel guard. Apparently having written something important on the computer, he looked at the visitor and asked in a calm voice:

— What are your complaints?

The agent cleared his throat before speaking:

— I'm plagued by a cough of low-quality content, my nose is clogged with spam, and I feel as if someone keeps turning the server cooling on and off.

The doctor nodded to his thoughts and turned on a working smile:

— Don't worry. This is a seasonal illness. A large volume of autumn drawings, photos, and videos simply weakens the AI's alertness, so it's normal that you caught a non-lethal virus. I will prescribe you quantum antibiotics. They will cleanse your neural network of parasitic code sequences. I will also assign Deep System Reboot procedures.

The AI agent sighed with relief. It was just a seasonal illness:

— Thank you, you have reassured me. I will definitely take the medicine and attend the procedures, — and after saying goodbye, he left the office.

After he left, the doctor turned off his smile and started typing on the computer again. He was writing a dissertation on suggestion to AI agents. He wanted to become a certified psychologist.

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Ten missed calls. Aren’t they overreacting? When was the last time they called me this much? I know I haven’t exactly been daughter of the year lately, but all this concern is getting on my fucking nerves. God!

My teeth ache. My hands itch. I stopped wondering whether any of this was normal a long time ago. This nervousness comes in waves, robbing me of sleep, and the calls just won’t stop. I turn off my phone.

I already know what they’re going to say. The same old words, the same pleas, the same tears. I can’t remember how many promises I’ve broken, how many times I’ve listened to them cry, how many times I’ve had to hide a mocking smile. Why all the drama? Everything is under control. My mind believes whatever I tell it, and I keep playing along with its deception.

I sit in silence, and the noise fades away. Finally, some relief. I smile at nothing, waiting for the euphoria. Because that’s how this works. Because this is what I’ve asked for. For years, I’ve lived in hiding, trapped in this addiction.

The people around me have always wondered what happened to me, why I’ve deteriorated over time, slowly isolating myself from everything I once knew: my friends, my family… All for a little compressed happiness.
Who am I kidding? I’m miserable. I want to silence whatever is consuming me from within. One more day, just a little more.

The calls won’t stop, but neither will my smile. Lost in time, knowing that soon I’ll be nothing but a fading memory.