You know it’s bad when you start arguing with yourself—and lose.

  I’ve been in this lab for… weeks? Months? Honestly, I measure time by the decaying state of my coffee cups. One more suspicious sip and I might unlock a new strain of plague.

  The Argov suits—my so-called masterpiece—are finally done. Hand-crafted with the delicate touch of a sleep-deprived genius and the reckless ego of someone too stubborn to quit when the fumes kicked in.

  I spin lazily in my chair, watching the suits tucked neatly in their holding bays like obedient metal children. Perfect. Silent. Gleaming.

  Not that anyone’s going to throw me a parade. The creation process involved cursing, questionable wiring, and Ortol’s micromanagement.

  “Oh, Jrake, fix the energy distribution already—”

  “Jrake, why is it on fire again?”

  “Jrake, eat something or you’ll die.”

  Yes, Ortol, I ate. Nourished myself on pure resentment.

  I push myself up from the chair and stretch, feeling something crack in my spine. Probably important… whatever. I head out of the lab, stepping into the facility’s main hall.

  The place is massive. A labyrinth of glass and steel, vibing with the dull glow of innovation and the faint, ever-present scent of ozone. Welcome to the Research and Environmental Stabilization Sector of Kernel—our last, desperate attempt to stop the planet from drowning in its own misery.

  The current forecast? Oh, just global flooding, continent-swallowing storms, and the kind of weather that makes you wish you were born with gills. They say it’ll rain around the whole planet soon. Three hundred days of unrelenting storms. A slow, suffocating apocalypse.

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  And in the middle of it all? Ortol. My dear step-brother. The so-called World Mayor of Alvecore, reigning supreme for the past six years. He built the greatest city—Kernel—in less than one. A whole metropolis, raised like an empire overnight. The guy doesn’t waste time proving he’s something to behold.

  Me? I’m just the poor bastard stuck making sure his soldiers don’t die when they step outside.

  I find myself wandering into the communication room. It’s about as lively as a funeral parlor, five people hunched over their desks, responding to calls with the enthusiasm of a dying goldfish. They work through their Views with direct neural links that let them transmit visuals and data hands-free.

  I sigh. “You guys ever consider leaving this crap to the AI?”

  One of them, a guy who vaguely recognizes me (or maybe he just thinks he does), perks up. “Oh, Jrake! Ortol said we could ask you for help when needed.”

  Of course, he did. I am, after all, Ortol’s official dumping bag.

  The guy stands up, stretching. “Gotta take a leak. Hold down the fort, will ya?” He pats me on the shoulder like we’re old pals, then strolls off to the bathroom.

  I stare after him. Seriously? That’s it? Just dumping your job on me and walking off?

  Whatever. Not like I have anything better to do.

  I lean against the desk, connecting my View to the system. Static hums in my ear.

  Silence…

  Nothing.

  I wait.

  For some reason, I hope this isn’t for nothing.

  My fist tightens against the desk.

  And then—

  A call.

  I answer immediately, never thinking I’d be so freaking glad to respond to one.

  The voice glitches to life, and a woman’s voice comes through, sharp and urgent. “I need to report a Navorian appearance.”

  I let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Oh, yeah? Was it like the one who captured me? Obsidian scales and stuff?”

  There’s a pause. Then, she replies, “Yeah.”

  My amusement fades for half a second. Impossible. How'd he get this far without Kernel's defenses lighting up like a Christmas tree? Either this lady’s got the worst eyesight on the planet, or she’s screwing with me.

  I laugh harder. “Sure, like that’s true.”

  The guy from the bathroom returns, rubbing his hands together. I don’t even hesitate—I send the call over to him. “Here, buddy. Listen to this report. Might actually make you leave this crap for an AI.”

  Then I walk out.

  Still unsatisfied.

  When did I end up in this pit?

  Making suits, building armor, churning out weapons like some glorified blacksmith—that was never what I envisioned for myself.

  And yet, here I am. The guy who builds the tools so other people can kill things better.

  I head back to my lab, the automated doors hissing open as I step inside. My gaze lands on a single projection in the corner, running endless streams of data.

  Not military research. Not weapons.

  Something else entirely.

  My real project.

  My real goal.

  Not armor. Not war.

  Something far more dangerous.

  An AI unlike any before.

  An artificial mind—not just programmed intelligence, but something that thinks, adapts, understands.

  Something like the Mind of Mecanet, the legendary system that governs a galaxy with beyond-human intuition.

  I already have a name for it.

  Smile.

  What do you think Smile really is?