Off Script: Chapter Three

Nico’s building had always been sleek, but now it shimmered with upgrades so seamless, they almost felt invisible—thermal tinting on the glass that adjusted to mood, the delicate hum of AI-assisted elevators that knew where you wanted to go before you pressed a button. Even the air was different, with ambient soundscapes tailored to your biometric profile, weaving soft melodies that aligned perfectly with your heart rate. The lobby greeted her with a scent so refined it felt preordained—warm cedar, trace bergamot, a hint of ozone. It was like inhaling confidence, distilled and vaporized.

Rhea stepped through the front entrance, and the system pinged her identity. A soft chime reverberated around the lobby, acknowledging her presence. The walls, illuminated with soft, shifting colors, glowed a pale blush as if the entire building was breathing, recognizing her as someone it once knew. There was an intimacy to it—unsettling, like being watched by something that knew you too well. She had seen this space before, when it was still in its raw, unfinished stages—bare drywall, exposed wiring, the elevator that still required a button press. Back then, Nico had called it a work in progress, and, in a way, he had been too. Both of them had been.

She hesitated at the elevator. The polished floor reflected too much, like the surface of a mirror, revealing too much about her, about who she was now compared to the person she once was. She wondered, not for the first time, if she still belonged in this space, if it was still hers in any sense. It felt like stepping into a memory that had rewritten itself without her consent. The elevator doors parted soundlessly, as if it already knew where she needed to go. No press of the button was necessary.

As the elevator ascended, Rhea's reflection caught her eye. Her face was too sharp, too honest—eyes that hadn’t slept in days, a coat that had lost its shape and style over time. She tugged at the hem, trying to make herself feel like she fit in, squaring her shoulders as if posture alone could armor her against whatever was about to happen. The sensation of familiarity in the elevator was like holding onto a rope, only for it to slip from your grasp the moment you thought you had control. As the lift rose, so did her pulse, a steady, quickening rhythm that threatened to echo in her throat. What if he didn’t look at her the same way? What if he did?

The elevator released her onto Nico’s floor with a soft exhale, as though the building itself had decided to let her go. No hallway. No neighbors. Just a private vestibule and a single door that slid open with a sigh of its own, as though it were opening just for her.

Inside, the apartment was nothing short of a curated masterpiece, designed by an architect who only took commissions from sentient art collectors. It was minimalist, the kind of place that felt more like a gallery than a home. The color palette was a mix of whites, cool grays, and sharp, sleek edges, with one rebellious splash of amber from a glass decanter sitting inconspicuously on the bar. The air felt too perfect, too clean—like the kind of place no one actually lived in, but rather existed for display. A faint kinetic sculpture floated near the ceiling, suspended by magnetic fields, spinning slowly in a way that seemed too deliberate, too controlled.

Rhea had never liked places that looked untouched, as though they were waiting for something to happen, but never actually living. Homes were meant to have character. Scuff marks, papers scattered across a desk, the clutter of real life. Not silence. Not staging. This was a showroom of a life, but not a real one.

She stood in the middle of the space for a moment, as if waiting for something, for him, to break the stillness. But everything in this apartment was exactly as it should be—too perfect, too unyielding, and for a moment, she wondered if she had come to the wrong place entirely.

Nico appeared from the kitchen, holding two glasses of something expensive and molecular. He wore soft-gray loungewear, the kind of outfit that said he had all the time in the world, and confidence like cologne. It clung to him, unspoken but undeniable. His hair was longer than she remembered, tucked casually behind one ear, and his posture had changed too—looser, but in a deliberate way, like a man who had rehearsed how to appear unbothered. She could still see the old Nico in the details: the way his thumb rubbed the base of the glass, the faint crescent scar near his temple from when he fell off his bike during a protest march.

"Still drinking things that glow, I see," Rhea said, stepping inside, her voice laced with something between amusement and disbelief.

"It’s matcha-ferment," he replied, his voice smooth, like a sales pitch he’d delivered a thousand times. "Supposed to boost articulation and mood congruence. Pairs nicely with nostalgia."

She took the glass, studying the light green liquid as it swirled faintly on its own, almost as if it had a life of its own. “And you still talk like you’re sponsored by your own chip.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, but there was warmth behind it, a little spark of the old Nico that had always been able to make her laugh, even when she didn’t want to. "You’re in rare form tonight. Sit."

Rhea perched on the edge of his plush sofa. The furniture seemed designed to gently correct posture, not comfort. It was as though it had been engineered with a goal in mind—perfect body alignment, no slouching, no surrendering to ease. The lighting adjusted automatically, casting a perfect editorial glow across her face. It felt like being photographed without a camera, like her every angle had been pre-approved. The precision of it made her feel like she was both seen and scrutinized at once. And yet, part of her wanted to lean into it—the flattery, the precision, the calm. She hated that.

Nico sat across from her, legs crossed, perfectly at ease. His gaze on her was steady, but not unkind. "So. They made you an offer."

She nodded, her fingers tightening around the stem of the glass. "Mira wants me to debate Vance Orrell."

His eyes widened slightly, just a fraction, but it was enough to make the room feel like it had shifted. “Big stage. And a bigger fall if you lose.”

“They want me chipped,” she added, a little too casually, as if that wasn’t the kind of thing that should rattle her more.

“Of course they do.”

“Temporary. A soft install.” She said it like she believed it, even though the words didn’t sit comfortably in her mouth.

He laughed quietly, swirling his drink, his expression almost fond as he observed her. “There’s no such thing. The first taste is the rebrand. You get used to the clarity, the rhythm, the applause. Then you wonder how you ever lived with all the ums and maybes."

She took a long sip of the drink, the citrusy sharpness mingling with the chlorophyll undertones. It tasted like something she didn’t have a name for—maybe hope, maybe regret, maybe the space between the two. She couldn’t tell. "You didn’t used to sound like this."

“You didn’t used to hate everything,” he said, the words slipping out with surprising ease. His gaze didn’t leave her, as if he could see all the walls she’d put up and the cracks in between them.

“That’s not fair,” she replied, the bitterness rising unbidden. She set her glass down, her fingers gripping it tightly, like it could ground her in a moment that didn’t feel as unreal as it did.

“No,” he agreed, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “But it’s true.” His voice softened a little, and he leaned forward, the flickering light casting shadows across his face. “Look—I know what I gave up. I know I’m tuned. But the world listens now. You think they cared when I stuttered through job interviews or tripped over my thoughts in front of a client? They didn’t. I optimized. I adapted.”

Rhea looked at him hard, really looked, and there was a sharpness in her eyes that wasn’t there before. “You disappeared.”

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But at least I’m heard.”

They sat in silence. The room adjusted again—lowering the lights, softening the edges of everything as if the apartment itself were trying to defuse the tension. The change was subtle, a gentle shift that made everything feel softer, more comfortable, as if it were trying to coax them into ease. But Rhea felt none of it. Instead, she felt the weight of the space pressing down on her, the air too still, too curated.

Rhea glanced around, suddenly hyperaware of her own presence in the space, as if she didn’t belong there. “How long have you lived like this?” she asked, her voice quieter now, though the question was anything but.

“In all this... harmony,” she added, her eyes drifting to the perfect lines of the furniture, the muted elegance of the decor, the careful absence of clutter.

“A year. Maybe a little more.”

“Isn’t it exhausting? The calibration. The rehearsed ease.”

He smiled, but there was a little edge to it now. “Only when people like you visit. Otherwise, it’s... quiet. It’s clean.”

“But it’s not real.”

“It’s not messy,” he countered, his tone even, careful. “There’s a difference.”

Rhea stood and wandered toward a display shelf lined with translucent cubes—data sculptures, perhaps memories captured and preserved in a format that felt too pristine to be authentic. One pulsed slowly, in time with what could have been a heartbeat, the light flickering in subtle rhythms. She hovered her hand over one, and the air shimmered, as though the memory inside the cube recognized her touch.

A younger Nico appeared, his voice cracking, proposing to her once with a ring made of folded foil—crude, but sincere. Her throat tightened, the moment fresh again, though it had happened years ago.

“You keep your memories visible?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Only the curated ones. The rest are archived.”

Rhea turned, one eyebrow raised, an incredulous smile pulling at her lips. “Curated?”

He nodded. “You pick the ones worth remembering. You store them in a format the chip can access more cleanly. Emotional smoothing, tonal correction. No jagged edges.”

“Jesus.”

“You still hold on to the pain like it’s proof of life,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “I used to admire that. Now I wonder if it’s just another kind of fear.”

She walked back to the couch, her spine tight, feeling the weight of his words, heavy in the air between them. “You think I’m afraid?”

“I think you’re proud of being broken in ways you’ve decided are noble.”

The words hit harder than she wanted them to. She felt them, deep in her chest. Her voice dropped, soft and low. “That’s not what this is.”

Nico didn’t flinch. His gaze was steady, unwavering. “Then what is it, Rhea? What are you trying to prove by staying raw while the rest of us upgrade?”

“I want to know who I am when no one’s tuning the signal.”

He tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “And what if the noise is all that’s left?”

She stared at him. At this man she had once almost loved.

There was a time, not that long ago, when Nico had been a stammering grad student with big ideas and a busted laptop. He’d written poems on the backs of receipts. He used to talk about the elegance of inefficiency. Now he quoted latency metrics and micro-gesture optimization reports. The warmth was still there, hidden somewhere behind the glint of his enhancements. But she didn’t know how to reach it anymore.

“Why did you really ask me to come here?” Nico asked, finally.

“Because I needed to see someone who made the leap. Who didn’t just survive it, but wore it like second skin.”

“And?”

She stood, glass still in hand, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. “And I don’t know whether you’re a warning or a blueprint.”

He nodded, the faintest flicker of something behind his eyes—regret, maybe, or relief. But it was gone before she could place it.

At the door, she paused. The building’s sensors were already syncing with her exit, recalibrating lighting and airflow for her departure, as though the space already knew she was leaving.

“They already made me the offer for the chip… and I already said yes.”

Nico stood too, a beat behind her, his eyes locked on hers. “Then just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“Don’t forget how it felt to be whole before it made you perfect.”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Not without breaking. And so she left. The door sliding shut behind her with a finality that echoed louder than any goodbye she could have said.

The door closed behind her with a soft hiss, and for a brief moment, Rhea felt the weight of the silence settle over her. The elevator was waiting, poised to take her back to the ground floor, but she didn’t enter. Instead, she walked down the hallway, her footsteps barely making a sound on the soft carpet as she paced beneath the flickering glow of wall-mounted impression displays.

A child’s drawing, crude but full of life, transitioned into an algorithmically enhanced oil painting—colors shifting, blending, evolving as though the image were alive. A poem flickered, its golden cursive dissolving into the air before she could even make out the first line.

Everything in this place was designed to capture her attention, to pull her into a world that never stopped moving, never stopped changing. It was exhausting. It felt like she could never catch up, like the very walls were trying to force-feed her perfection.

She found herself in a quiet overlook space at the end of the corridor. The room was small, but the floor-to-ceiling windows offered an unobstructed view of the city below. From up here, the world seemed calm—an endless thrum of neon veins, auto-drones zipping by, and gliding skycars floating effortlessly between towers. But Rhea knew better. The peace was manufactured, carefully curated to make it feel like nothing was out of place. The city had been tuned to perfection, just like everything else around her.

Her wrist buzzed, cutting through the stillness. A message from Mira.

“We’ve scheduled a pre-install consult. 9 a.m. I’ll walk you through it myself.”

No signature. None needed.

Rhea stared out at the skyline, her gaze distant. She remembered a time before it had started to shimmer so insistently. Before every light was selling something, every corner of the city had a purpose beyond just existing. A time when you could just breathe and not wonder what metric was being calculated in the background.

Before every word out of your mouth could be scored and analyzed and polished. Before you had to be more than just yourself.

She closed her eyes, trying to remember the last time she’d laughed without wondering how it sounded. Without wondering what it said about her, or whether it was genuine enough for others to believe.

And then, without thinking, she did something she hadn’t done in a while.

She hummed. No tuning, no pitch correction, no audience. Just noise. Just her.

For a moment, it felt like the world around her slowed down. Like the city wasn’t trying to perfect her. She wasn’t trying to perfect herself. It was just her. And the sound. Raw. Unpolished. Real.