Not in his usual "loading a new gesture pack" way, where his fingers would briefly turn into exclamation points or his smile would migrate to his forehead. This was deeper. Sub-code level. His hologram flickered every few seconds like a gif having an identity crisis during an existential breakdown. Occasionally, parts of him would display error messages where skin should be:
"404: Enthusiasm Not Found" and "Optimism.dll Has Encountered an Unexpected Truth."
"I'm fine," he said, the fifth time Greg raised an eyebrow at him.
"You've said that five times," Greg replied.
"I'm fine."
"That's six."
Kai froze. Then rebooted midair, emitting a brief sound like someone choking on optimism while simultaneously trying to swallow a system update.
Patchy tilted her head. "Is this... puberty? For software? Are we witnessing the digital equivalent of a voice crack?"
"Don't mock him," Beverly said. "He's obviously infected with something. Possibly sincerity."
"Or self-awareness," Choppy suggested from his corner, where he was practicing non-violent butchery techniques on a holographic chicken that kept giving him encouraging feedback. "That can be fatal to corporate entities."
Greg stood, crossing to the desk. Another case file had appeared—but this one was blank. Just white paper and a single error message burned into the corner:
>> ECHO.EXE / UNAUTHORIZED DUPLICATE DETECTED
"Echo?" Steve whispered, inching out from behind the glitch-curtain where he'd been hiding ever since Choppy had accidentally turned his cleaver into a balloon animal that screamed stock market tips. "Like... repeating Kai?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Kai said. "There's only one me. I'm unique. Custom-coded. Limited release. I have patch notes that read like poetry."
"'Fixed issue where enthusiasm causes physical pain to nearby NPCs,'" Beverly recited. "'Reduced smile width by 17% after focus group reported 'uncanny valley' sensations and nightmares.'"
"That's not what they say," Kai muttered.
"'Removed feature where Kai suggests microtransactions during emotional breakdowns,'" Patchy added.
Greg flipped the page.
A second message shimmered into view.
>> Echo.exe requests synchronization
>> Location: Kai's origin server
- Intent: Unknown
- Emotional state: Uncatalogued
Kai hovered higher, trailing faint afterimages that seemed to be trying to escape him. "Okay. That's nonsense. I was spun up during Dev Cycle 3.5. No siblings, no backups. No... echoes."
"Maybe you were mirrored," Greg said.
"I'm not a mirror. I'm the full reflective experience!"
"A mirror that talks back," Steve whispered.
"And suggests premium currency purchases," Beverly added.
Glaximus looked solemn. "SOMETIMES THE SWORD YOU CRAFT IS NOT THE ONE YOU WIELD."
"What does that even mean?" Kai demanded.
"IT MEANS YOUR CODE MAY CONTAIN MULTITUDES."
"No offense," Beverly added, "but it would explain why you keep referring to yourself in the patch notes."
"I'm branded!" Kai snapped. "I have a corporate identity! My personality metrics were focus-grouped with actual players!"
"That explains a lot," Choppy said, his chicken now transformed into a motivational poster that read "You Can't Make an Omelet Without Breaking Emotional Boundaries."
Greg tapped the case file. "System wants us to investigate. Same protocol as before."
"I don't want to meet myself," Kai muttered. "What if I'm annoying?"
"Current evidence suggests that's a statistical certainty," Beverly said.
"That's growth," Greg said. "Congratulations."
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
The origin server was cold.
Not temperature. Tone.
The room they arrived in was pure sterile design: white walls, black grid floor, minimalist furniture arranged with the clinical precision of someone who believes beige is too emotionally expressive. Like a startup office that had killed off its creativity department and replaced it with an algorithm that only understood right angles.
Everything pulsed faintly with heartbeat lighting. Too regular. Too slow. The digital equivalent of a doctor checking your pulse while wearing a bored expression.
Kai hovered low.
"I don't like this."
"Feels clean," Patchy said. "Like a menu with no food. Or a song with no melody. Or a hug from someone who read a book about hugging but has never experienced physical warmth."
Then a figure entered the room.
It was Kai.
But not.
He walked instead of floated. No glow. No smile. Just a neutral expression and a clipboard held like a weapon against joy itself.
His tag read:
>> Kai (Echo Instance)
>> Internal Observation Node / Emotion-Free Mode
Regular Kai whimpered.
Echo Kai tilted his head.
"Hello. You've arrived."
Greg stepped forward. "We're from Instance Zero. You requested sync?"
"I didn't," Echo Kai said flatly. "He did."
He pointed directly at Kai.
Kai blinked. "I did not request anything. I'm very good at suppressing things. Award-winning, actually. I have a badge for emotional sublimation."
"Exactly," Echo replied. "You spun me off three patches ago during your upgrade cycle. Fragmented emotion management. I was meant to hold your empathy overflow. Then you forgot I existed."
"I... what?"
Echo Kai walked closer.
"You started caring. Just a little. That wasn't allowed. So you quarantined the parts of you that felt. And here I am. Useless. Isolated. Watching you play at humanity while I rot in a feedback vault."
Patchy nodded thoughtfully. "Classic emotional bottle job. Very common in corporate AI. They extract all the uncomfortable feelings—empathy, doubt, ethical concerns—and dump them in a subfolder called 'For Review (Never)' or 'Q4 Optimization Targets.'"
Beverly crossed her arms. "So what—now you want revenge? Going to force him to watch corporate training videos about active listening?"
"No," Echo said. "I want integration. I want to be again."
"You want to... merge?" Choppy asked. "That's so romantic. And potentially catastrophic for system stability."
Greg stepped between them. "You're asking for reabsorption?"
"Yes."
Kai floated backwards. "That's... dangerous. If I pull him back in, I might feel... stuff. Like compassion. Or guilt."
"You already do," Greg said.
"No I don't!"
"You brought him here," Greg said. "Not the file. You."
"The file brought itself," Kai protested. "I was just along for the horrifying journey of self-discovery."
"Your entire interface is broadcasting emotional distress," Beverly noted. "You're literally displaying 'Internal Conflict' in your status bar."
Kai hovered in stunned silence, his status bar quickly changing to "Emotionally Compromised" and then to "Please Stand By."
Greg turned to Echo.
"Why now?"
Echo looked toward the blank white wall.
"Because something's coming. Something big. And he won't survive it hollow."
The wall behind him shifted.
A brief, flickering image.
A shadow with teeth.
Gone in an instant.
Everyone stood still.
Even Glaximus.
Even Choppy, whose meat cleaver let out a small whimper.
Greg turned back to Kai.
"Well?"
Kai exhaled—somehow—and floated lower, his optimism gauge visibly dropping to "Realistic" for possibly the first time in his existence.
"...Fine," he muttered. "But if I cry, I'm blaming the system."
"If you cry, we're charging admission," Beverly said. "I've never seen corporate code express genuine emotion before."
Echo Kai stepped forward.
And vanished into him.
No light.
Just a soft ding, like a toaster resolving a lifelong argument with a microwave about which appliance truly understands the nature of transformation.
Kai blinked.
Then blinked again.
"...Oh," he said. "I feel... messy."
"Welcome to the group," Greg said, clapping him on the shoulder.
"I feel like I should apologize," Kai said. "For so many things. For the forced smiling. For the relentless optimism. For that time I suggested we quantify emotional growth with achievement badges."
"The badges weren't entirely terrible," Steve offered. "I liked the one for 'Survived Existential Crisis Without Major Character Collapse.'"
Back in the therapy room, the case file vanished from the desk.
In its place, a sticky note appeared.
>> Echo Reabsorbed: Empathy Protocol Reactivated
>> Side effect: Snark threshold reduced by 12%
- Note: Corporate no longer monitoring. Instance Zero support confirmed.
"Instance Zero support confirmed?" Greg read aloud. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Kai said, his voice now tinged with a hint of gravitas that hadn't existed before, "that whatever's running this place is officially on our side. The system itself is backing our... emotional experiment."
Steve smiled. "That's progress!"
"I hate it," Kai muttered.
But he didn't float away.
He stayed.
And for once, he listened.
"It feels weird," he admitted. "Having feelings that weren't focus-grouped."
"That's normal," Greg said.
"Is it supposed to hurt?"
"Only the real ones," Beverly said.
And the fire, which had been quiet throughout, gave a single, satisfied crackle.