Have you ever heard your last breath?

Listened to it inching closer in the chaos, knowing that at any moment this inhale could be your final one, or its exhale could be the period that ends your sentence?

I know nothing of lasts, only firsts.

Now, with my eyes closed and my face turned up toward the sky, I hear it coming. It won't be long. Maybe that's why I draw out my breaths, holding onto them even as the foul, metallic air stings my throat.

Inside, I am the picture of serenity: The faintest whisper of a breeze flitting across the treetops, the comforting swish and sway of leaves against each other as the branches undulate.

I have never known peace so complete, but now it curls up in my stomach and purrs.

Slowly, I open my eyes, searching my crimson-coated forearms for gashes. I can't find a single scratch. I am whole, unbroken; the blood isn't mine.

I stand in a small circle of slick grass, and just beyond its radius the bodies start. Some are perfectly still. Others groan as they writhe, unable to rise. Ten, twenty, thirty...it doesn't matter. I regard them all with the same indifference, knowing that I should feel horror, but unable to muster anything.

And then I smile.

* * *

If two adults love each other, they should get married.

If someone proposes to you, they love you.

If you love him, you say yes.

I love Sven.

Of course, there's more to it than that. Does he ask about your day when he sees you after work? Does he give decent tips at a restaurant? Does he tell you the truth, apologize after a fight? Is he just as content to fall asleep beside you in bed as he is to get passionate?

Can you be all those things to him, too?

Somewhere, in that infinitely long list of requirements, some combination of them returns "true."

My nails beat an uneven rhythm on the strap of my bag, the extra weight on my third finger unfamiliar. The diamond perched there bounces the sunlight back toward my eyes, a constant reminder that I'm no longer just me.

I feel my lips twitch upward and remember what my therapist told me yesterday. You've disconnected your brain from your body. Listen to it. Every little movement—that smile you're giving me right now?—think about why. A squint, a blink, the tap of a foot—they all mean something. You are feeling. You've just lost the link that tells you what.

She calls them dissociative emotions, and I don't know if it's the right term or not but she's right about one thing: My brain is disconnected from something. It's like a semi-permeable bubble encases me, and feelings float somewhere beyond, but every time I reach through to try to pull them in, it comes back muddled in my hands.

That's why I love Sven. He's light in all the ways I'm dark—his hair, his eyes, his complexion—and it doesn't stop there. I close myself off, but he always reaches out. He doesn't let me live inside my bubble.

My steps slow as SynCo's headquarters rise into view. At eleven stories, it's a modest size for one of the country's tech giants, but what it lacks in height it more than makes up for in beauty. With mirrored floor-to-ceiling windows, a modern brick exterior, and a logo as tall as I am sitting at its top, it dominates the block. Any other day, it would slap an eager smile on my face, but today it sinks a hollow pit into my stomach.

I glance over my shoulder, suddenly feeling heavy—like if I tried to run, I'd never be quick enough.

I turn back around, shaking off the eerie thought. As I draw closer to the building, a cacophony of voices whirl toward me on the icy wind. Shouting. I stop again, my muscles tensing. Shielding my eyes, I expect to see a frightened crowd, pushing and shoving and trampling each other as they run from an unknown danger.

And then I spot them. Not running, not pushing, just yelling themselves hoarse as they wave signs from their spot in front of the SynCo office building. At their center, a man in a high-collared black shirt holds a bible, murmuring inaudibly. A few of them catch sight of me and begin pointing, their signs facing me now so that I can read every bold, Sharpied word.

Stop AI now!

Today our jobs, tomorrow our lives!

A few are just simple red crosses drawn through the world Carlos. One poster reads, "Faster, stronger, better" next to a drawing of a robot, and then "Irrelevant" beneath that, next to a human. Another is a large cutout of Sven, a garish cartoon speech bubble attached to his head that proclaims, "Big brother is watching...and learning." I stare up at his blond-haired, blue-eyed Nordic beauty, wishing that the real man himself was here to take my hand and lead me through their wake.

But he isn't, and I hug myself as I hesitate. They all stare at me now with avid attention, and I know the second I take a step forward they'll start shouting at me. They know who I am. Even if I wasn't infamous for dating the CEO of SynCo, I'm even more notorious as the head of mobile engineering for the AI project they're protesting.

I crane my neck, searching for the escort that usually meets me outside the office. They all know I arrive at seven-thirty on the dot, without fail. I check my phone, making sure I'm not early—but everything is on schedule.

Except security.

I sigh. I have to get to work. With the annual keynote fast approaching, I only have a day left to prepare my code and my speech. I have bugs to fix, presentations to outline, slides to make.

I lift my foot.

The assault is instantaneous. I duck my head as the insults start flying, as if avoiding eye contact will shield me from their hate. I draw even with them and start to shoulder my way through; the first few let me pass, but when I reach the middle they suddenly condense like a black hole around me, trapping me in their airless depths.

The man with the bible steps right in front of me, staring me down as his gentle murmurs finally reach my ears. "God created us in His image," he says, his serenity unnerving against the surrounding chaos. "What right have you to follow in His footsteps? A creation in our image is flawed by definition. Violent. A danger to us all."

A woman interrupts, shoving a sign between us as she stares right at me and shouts, "What about human intelligence, huh? You really think your machines can do our jobs better than we can? You're really going to throw us all into the streets?"

Before I can think of a rebuttal, she turns away, shaking her head. "Heartless."

My heart hammers. Her words are complete crap, but logic has no grip on me right now. I stand on my tiptoes, searching for security, but I can't see beyond their bodies. I spin on the spot, trying to find a gap, until I don't even know which way is forward. Their massive signs block out the sun, turning the morning into a dusky crisis.

Oh, god. It's just like the nightmares. I feel the graze of imaginary hands reaching out for me, pulling me this way and that. But this time, I can't escape by waking up.

My throat spasms on itself as I swallow. I need Sven. At six and a half feet, no one would dare mess with him.

Someone grabs my elbow, and I try to wrench it away from their viselike grip. The air is too thin for my lungs now. I close my eyes, imagining how I might meet my end in the midst of a group of angry protesters.

"Please," I choke, pushing at the bodies in front of me with my free arm.

"Come on." My body goes limp as I recognize the voice in my ear. Davis.

Ahead, the crowd starts to part, but its movement is jagged, as if it resists every push. Out of the throng, a lone security officer finally appears, his bulk still no match for the angry mob. With trembling legs, I allow him to tug me through them, using his own body like a battering ram. Davis follows close behind, forming a sandwich of safety around me. When we finally reach the steps that lead down from the sidewalk, it clears, and we jog the rest of the way into the building's basement. The security guard resumes his post by the door, leaving Davis and me to wait for the elevator.

"Davis." I blow out a breath and lean my palms on my knees as he stands over me. "I thought you were one of them."

I glance up to find him frowning at me. "What happened? You looked like you were having a full-on panic attack."

I don't answer. Is that what panic feels like? I repeat the word a few times in my head, trying to remember my body's response—the racing pulse in my throat, the feeling of nausea with nothing coming up. Even now, my muscles still quake like someone in withdrawal.

Panic.

"I'm fine." I straighten up, throwing one more glance over my shoulder. All I can see is the protesters' legs, milling around like penned cattle.

Davis watches me closely, but lets it go. "Where's Sven?"

"He flew in from San Francisco this morning." I tug at the hem of my shirt, trying to appear businesslike. "You know him, he was coming straight here from the airport. Probably beat us, too."

I jump when the elevator dings, and Davis shoots me another tight-lipped look as we enter. "Ronnie, how long have we worked together?"

I sigh. "Two years."

Davis is the lead infrastructure engineer. He manages servers and sync, and he's had that job ever since I signed on. He knows everything there is to know about SynCo.

He nudges me with his elbow. "You sure you're okay?"

I nod, and he hesitates a moment before returning it. We stand in silence as the elevator starts to rise. I don't tell him about the dreams. For two years they've plagued me—a deluge of hands clawing at my skin as I try to shake them off. I always struggle, but no matter how many I throw off, they keep coming in ranks. Like a whirlpool gathering, they swarm and close in. I always wake up before I can break free.

Except for this morning. This time, I once again stood in their midst—but I stood over them like a god, looking down at their fallen bodies with disdain. I shiver at the memory; the tang of blood in the air is still so strong that for a moment, I'm there again.

Nobody knows about those dreams. Not my therapist, not even Sven. I've never told anyone, and I certainly won't now. Someone with no empathy having dreams about mass murder? Yeah, even I would run the other way.

My gaze follows Davis's hand as he presses the button for the third floor and then leans on the handrail, beating out a gentle rhythm to pass the time. He has keyboard fingers. The kind that at first glance look awkwardly long and a bit like a spider's legs, but are surprisingly pleasant to look at in any position. Delicate, but strong. They have an easy elegance, no matter what they're doing.

His fingers slow and then stop, and it takes me a moment to look up at his face and realize that he's watching me stare at his hands.

Awkward.

He winks. I roll my eyes back at him. I know better than to take it seriously. He winks at everybody. It's part of his personality: Jokingly suggestive, and while he's not pushy about it, he doesn't hesitate to...well, mix business and pleasure.

And I know he must get a lot of offers. There's always somebody in the break room gushing about his muscles, or his dimples, or how his almost-but-not-quite-charcoal hair frames his face, or how his teeth are just not-straight enough to be perfect. At a place like SynCo, where we're all nerds, intelligence is attractive, and he certainly has the brains—but it helps when you've got the body, too, I guess.

I personally don't see it. I only have eyes for Sven, and he knows it.

The elevator stops, I blink, and Davis and I both make a beeline for our shared desk. The building has an open floor plan; Sven's philosophy is to foster collaboration, and as such, no one has an office except the high-level executives on the top floor.

My heart accelerates when I recognize Sven, silhouetted against the window as he watches the street below. He's here, waiting for me. He turns at the sound of my footsteps, his rough-hewn features softening into a grin. The lines around his deep-set eyes crinkle, making it impossible not to smile back. I drop my bag on the floor by my chair as I fling myself into his arms, wrapping myself tightly around him. The last bit of tension dissipates from my muscles as he squeezes me tight. I smile into his rumpled shirt as I feel his lips touch my forehead.

"Little rowdy out there," he comments, and I sink further into him. "You okay, Ron?"

I nod, the fabric creasing under my cheek. I am now.

"Didn't think of sending help?" Davis pipes up from behind us.

We both pull away and look up as he plops his backpack down on the desk with a hollow thunk. He's smiling, and the question is almost teasing, but there's something missing from his grin. Davis is an eye-smiler, which makes it easy to tell when he's not being genuine. Right now, no crinkles soften their corners. He's pleasant enough, but it's the kind of pleasant that sounds almost careful.

Sven doesn't seem to catch it. "The security team is down there."

"Inside the building."

Sven glances at me, but I just shrug. "I called the police," he says, his voice light. He starts to step away, but his hand lingers on my shoulder. He shoots me a wink. "I trust it won't distract you?"

I smile, feeling better now that I know he's back. He knows that Davis and I always finish our work ahead of schedule.

Davis, however, drops into his chair. "No, sir."

I squint at him, noticing the subtle inflection on the second word. It's not the first time I've caught something like that, and if I didn't know better, I would say he and Sven don't like each other. It's not anything tangible—they're always outwardly cordial. But I can't help feeling the stiffness with which Sven carries himself as he gives my hand one last squeeze and heads upstairs.

I listen to the rustle of Davis unpacking his things as I watch the demonstration below. My earlier panic has receded now that I'm separated from them by a layer of bricks. Their shouts are muffled through the glass, once again aimed at no one in particular.

Here's the thing: SynCo develops machines that speak and listen—yes. We're not the first to make a smartphone. Steve Jobs technically holds that title. We're not the first to make a digital personal assistant, either; SRI did it with Siri back in 2010.

But Carlos is different. What started as a slightly more human-sounding alternative to Siri and Google Assistant became a full-fledged operating system a few years before I joined SynCo, when they bought a hardware company called Tyr and invested a few million dollars into turning Carlos into CarlOS. Debuting alongside the sleek new TyrOne smartphone, it made an immediate splash in the market, with equal amounts of praise and criticism.

SynCon, our annual convention, is only a day away, and this year's Carlos will be better than ever. With the ability to carry out natural-sounding conversations, learn new names, faces, and even languages, and simulate a range of emotions, the personal assistant will be more of a friend than ever.

The people down on the street believe it will end the world, but all of it is just algorithms. Davis knows it, and I know it, because we've both seen them and touched them with our own hands. But out there, it looks a lot like Carlos is evolving into a sentient being that can teach itself—himself?—new things. One day he can learn Russian, the next he can learn how to take over the world.

Yeah, it's a big leap. But people have made it.

I plop down in my chair, making it groan. Are evil robot armies really made up of smartphones? Not that a single computer couldn't destroy the world. All it would take is shutting off our electric grid, and we'd probably destroy ourselves.

But people program computers to perform within certain parameters, and code doesn't just change itself. That's not how it works. If we tell Carlos to take over the world, we'd have to tell it how to go about it. Every single detail. It's a computer, it can't infer anything. It can't improvise.

"They're not worth it," Davis says over the frosted divider between us, nodding toward the window. "They don't know what they're talking about."

I smile, but it doesn't reach its full potential. I open my computer and settle my hands on the keys, noticing the subtle shift in my motions as the weight of my ring pulls at my third finger. I start typing furiously, eager to forget the morning's eerie atmosphere and lose myself in my work.

I settle into a rhythm, the code flowing so smoothly from my fingers that it almost writes itself. If this. While that. Delightful animations, smooth transitions, instant sync. They all start with these fingers.

These fingers, naked last week, now adorned with a rock that symbolizes pending eternity.

I am happy. I smile.

Beside me, Davis leans forward, cracking his knuckles as if taunting me to look at the source of the noise. "Hey, I got another joke for you," he says, grinning like a child.

I barely waste a glance on him. His jokes are notorious. "I don't want to hear it."

"It's not dirty this time," he tempts me.

I keep typing. I don't believe him.

He pokes me in the upper arm. "What do you call a computer that can sing?"

My keystrokes slow gradually as I fix him in an unamused glare, already knowing that whatever he says won't change my expression.

It doesn't stop his mouth from pulling up at the corner and crinkling his cheek. "A Dell!"

I blink slowly, completely unaffected. "Davis, it's 2030. That joke has been out of date for at least ten years."

He leans back in his chair, smirking to himself. "Okay, I get it. Tough crowd."

I appreciate him trying to lighten the mood, I really do. But it's just another reminder that today isn't a normal day, and I'm not a normal person. I drop my eyes to his hands. Those damn keyboard fingers, in their natural habitat. He follows my gaze, then narrows his eyes at me and glances at my hands.

"That's new," he comments, pointing at my ring.

I feel a warm flush creeping up my neck. Why am I blushing? Blushing is for when people find out embarrassing things about you. Sven is neither embarrassing, nor news to Davis.

"Yeah." I bite my lip and use my thumb to play with the band. A grin steals across my lips, even as I look up to find him giving me a guarded stare.

"That's a rock," he comments, obviously impressed.

I shrug. It's not the size of the gem that matters. It's the man who gave it to me, and the fact that he loves me enough to want to.

I glance back up at Davis. His eyes are still fixed on the diamond, his expression unreadable. Then he smiles, his face changing so quickly that I almost wonder if I imagined it. I watch his eyes carefully, but they crinkle just like they usually do.

"Congratulations," he says, then turns back to his work.

I stare at him, not because it's a strange sentiment but because, for a second, I could have sworn his eyes flickered red.

But as soon as I blink, it's gone.