Chapter 3

The current version of me stands in the heart of the slums, eyes glazed over as I watch illegal, flickering neon signs pulse in the rain. The hand-rolled tobacco I’m smoking is heavy and harsh, reeking of cheap synthetic nicotine. In the gaps between tinkering, Oliver chatters on about corporate galas, calling them nothing more than "mediocre self-consolation." I pull at the corner of my mouth, not telling him that I once attended a victory banquet that was, in truth, a meticulously engineered public execution.

It was one month after Vivian’s "Deep-Net Architecture" went live, sending our market value to the industry zenith. The top-floor ballroom of the Thorne Tower was illuminated by crystal chandeliers so blindingly bright they felt like a death sentence. The room was teeming with the city’s elite—capitalists and top-tier tech talent.

I had been dragged out of my gloomy monitoring room, which always smelled of machine oil. To fulfill the contract’s requirements for "total system integration," I had to be present—not as a technical partner, but as Ethan’s "Executive Assistant." At that grand banquet, I had one task: stand behind Ethan, acting as a shadow devoid of emotion, handling any trivial inconveniences that dared to manifest.

In the center of the hall, Ethan stood with a glass of Scotch, speaking eloquently about the core algorithm that I had spent three sleepless nights crafting. He spun the complex data logic into a testament to his own "genius spark," and the dignitaries around him toasted him, overflowing with praise.

Vivian stood at his side. That night, she wore a bespoke gown, looking like a porcelain doll carved by the hands of a master. The look she gave Ethan was the softest expression I had ever seen in my life. That tenderness—if she had granted me even a ten-thousandth of it, I wouldn’t have chosen to collapse as resolutely as I did in the time to come.

"Kane."

A cold voice cut through the air before me. I snapped back to reality, seeing Vivian waving at me. Her glass was empty; she was scanning for a waiter with nonchalant entitlement.

"Why are you standing so far away?" she gestured at me in the middle of a crowded room, ignoring all propriety, her tone laced with impatience. "Ethan’s glass is empty—can’t you see? Go over and pour him another. Even if you’re just a lackey, you should have some manners as an assistant."

In an instant, the ambient gaze of the room focused on me. The low-level engineers who had once witnessed my technical prowess watched me with a complex, mocking sneer. I walked to Ethan, picked up the decanter, and filled his crystal glass with amber liquid. My hand was steady—steady as a tombstone, devoid of ripples—yet that very stability was the deepest humiliation I had ever endured.

Ethan didn't look at me. He continued chatting with investors, as if I were nothing more than a passing mechanical arm.

"Kane, thank you for your hard work," Vivian said to Ethan with a smile so sweet it made my teeth ache. "This lackey is clumsy and occasionally makes mistakes with technical patches, but his efficiency is passable. At least for pouring tea, serving wine, and cleaning up trifles, he’s actually quite useful."

A ripple of low laughter echoed through the hall. The sound was like a serrated blade, shredding my dignity piece by piece. I had to endure it, for deep within the backend system, the "Emotional Binding" contract burned like a red-hot iron branded onto the root of my soul. If I showed even a flicker of resistance, the system’s punishment protocol would send a lethal voltage directly into my neural modules.

"Don't be too hard on him, Vivian." Ethan finally turned his head, sweeping a patronizing glance over me, the way one looks at a whimpering dog. "Mr. Kane is indeed very diligent. Although he lacks in talent and vision, he is a foundation stone of our empire, isn't he?"

The word "foundation" dropped from his lips like a cheap trinket.

As the gala reached its climax, the main event arrived. Vivian announced the establishment of the company's "Annual Tech Hero Award." On the giant screen, the source code that had shaken the industry—the program infused with my heart’s blood—was formally christened the "Ethan-Architecture."

I stood in the corner, listening as Vivian announced the copyright ownership. She didn’t utter a single syllable of my name. Furthermore, she announced that to "increase efficiency," my position would be demoted back to my entry-level status: Bottom-Layer Logic Maintenance Personnel.

"Kane," she didn’t even turn around, speaking calmly into the microphone, "since you are better suited for staying in the dark and patching code, you won't be needed for front-facing honors or management positions moving forward. Those are reserved for the creative 'Ethan.' You just need to focus on your repair work."

At that moment, I heard something shatter deep inside me. It wasn’t the loss of the position, nor was it the theft of the honor; it was the realization that these ten years of blood, sweat, total exhaustion of my cognitive capacity, and silent protection in the shadows were, in her eyes, as cheap and disposable as rags used to wipe a table.

I stood under the glorious lights, a ghost out of time. I looked up at Vivian’s innocent, arrogant smile. She thought she was protecting her "hero"; she thought she was building her "empire." But what she didn’t know was that the man she had just relegated to a lackey had, in that very second, torn a rift in the cage of the contract.

I was ready.

"Are you done fixing it?" In reality, Oliver shoved me out of the storage tank where I’d been deep in thought. "If you can’t handle this mechanical arm, I can make do on my own. Why are you so distracted today?"

I looked at Oliver, at his worried but genuine expression, and a mocking curve formed on my lips.

"Not fixed yet," I wiped a smudge of lubricant from my face. "I was just wondering: if an empire has no use for its foundation stone, what kind of ending can it have, other than collapse?"

Oliver shivered. "Kane, you’re saying those weird things again. Forget it, just get to work. If we don’t deliver this by tomorrow, we’ll all go hungry."

I lowered my eyes, looking at the complex servo driver, and my fingertips gently clicked a tiny resistor. At that moment, the mechanical arm—worth a fortune in Oliver’s eyes—became a volatile, dead-man’s switch under my control.

In my world, anything that strives to control me will eventually die by my control. That includes this machine, and it includes the woman who once suffocated me. I am just waiting—waiting for the right moment to turn those stolen titles into tombstones, engraved upon the ruins of her precious empire.