The large doors to the tower chamber swung open. The most powerful woman in the world heard hurried footsteps behind her, growing louder as the CFO approached. One might have thought something terrible had happened, given the urgency in his pace, but the truth was the same as always: time was money. He had developed a walk that was barely slower than a jog.

"Ms. Zara Thandros?" he said, stepping up beside her. He carried a thick stack of papers—the company’s annual financial statement, its stock value, and those of its countless subsidiaries. Most importantly: the profit.

Zara Thandros kept her impeccably manicured hands clasped behind her back. She stood near the panoramic window, her gaze shifting from the burning city below to the papers in the CFO’s hands. It was just a quick (curious) glance, but it revealed the thick, reassuring plus signs in the margins. However, she also spotted a few red figures that displeased her greatly.

"Truly fabulous news," the CFO said. He was dressed in an expensive suit, and his polished shoes gleamed as brightly as his pomaded hair. "No matter how much Professor Dr. Henry Thandros’s research may have cost us, it was worth every penny. Thanks to the boom in our character design division, we’ve increased revenue by 50% compared to last year. I may have a doctorate in economics," he added, "but even a math professor would struggle to pronounce the number that represents our net profits over the past five fiscal years since we launched the personality modulation technology made possible by Henry Thandros’s experiments. Ms. Zara Thandros, we could not only buy the United States—we could own the entire world."

"That’s exactly what we intend to do," she replied coolly. "What about the other tech and software giants?"

"We’ll have acquired them all by 2070. Many negotiations are already complete." He flipped through his documents—an act that, for him, lasted mere seconds. "Here it is. Production goods for R-energy usage remain consistently high, though the margin is significantly lower compared to the sale of character traits. That’s where we achieve the highest profits: lower effort, lower fixed costs, and—"

"Don’t tell me what I already know. Time is short; you of all people should understand that."

"Of course."

"What interests me far more are the red figures I saw on the first page…"

"As I mentioned…"

"Don’t repeat yourself."

The man fell silent as he retrieved the first pages from his stack of documents. "The problem is that not all character traits are equally in demand. Since the launch of our personality modulators, our absolute bestsellers have been selfishness, assertiveness, and self-confidence. Humor and charisma sit comfortably in the upper mid-range, but one thing is clear: self-love trumps altruism. We’ve reduced the prices for traits like righteousness and compassion by 95% citywide, but even if we gave them away for free, no one would want them. These traits are nothing but a loss for us."

"Then remove them from the catalog."

"But Henry Thandros wanted—"

"My grandfather is dead. I run this corporation. Supply follows demand. You do have a doctorate in economics, don’t you?"

"Of course, but—"

"All unprofitable traits will be removed from the market."

"Understood," he said. "We’ll be removing most positive character traits from our lineup."

"Do it."

"Consider it done, Ms. Zara Thandros," he said, making a quick note in his digital planner.

"How is the eradication of the old android models progressing?" Zara Thandros asked.

"Nearly complete," the man replied. "The Vargas-Thandros Test has shown a high success rate. So far, we’ve identified 900 androids in the city. However, we don’t know the total number. All documentation on the secret android project has vanished from the internet. There are no records left."

"A cyberattack?"

"We don’t know how it happened. Likely a technical issue," he added.

"More likely human error," Zara Thandros muttered. Then, "Is it possible we’ve located all of them?"

"No, Ms. Zara Thandros. Impossible. On average, we still uncover one android per month pretending to be human. Additionally, 157 were confirmed members of the resistance and, per your orders, were immediately scrapped. Over the past months, we’ve retrofitted the rest."

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"Retrofitted? I trust you’ve ensured they’re incapable of developing consciousness."

"Ms. Zara Thandros, forgive my unscientific phrasing, but even a cockroach has some form of consciousness—the question is its degree. The new models operate with only 0.03% of their predecessors’ processing power. Memory systems have been drastically throttled, and learning capabilities reduced to a bare minimum, ensuring—" he found the relevant document—"a confirmation from the lead committee that this rudimentary form of artificial consciousness can never evolve into sentience or self-awareness. Here it is, in black and white. You have nothing to fear from another revolution."

"I’m not afraid," Zara Thandros said, taking the paper from his hand and skimming the lines.

"As per your directive, Ms. Zara Thandros, we’re marketing the robots exclusively as sex toys and domestic servants," he said.

Zara Thandros handed the document back. "Are the advertising expenses worth it?"

"Absolutely," the man replied. "Revenue has soared since the last high-budget campaign. However…"

"Yes?"

"Well, we’re selling the sexbots as a technological marvel, but we could do much better. With a touch more… humanity… we could captivate our customers even further and multiply profits in this segment."

"Never," Zara Thandros snapped.

Her sharp tone visibly startled the CFO. Knowing her, he thought she’d never pass up the chance for greater profit. Perhaps she really did fear the androids after all.

"Just as we cannot allow the citizens of this city to think freely, we must deny that possibility to the robots as well. That was my grandfather’s greatest mistake." Zara Thandros gazed pensively beyond the wall of windows at the sprawling city below. The sun had dipped low enough that the lower districts were already swallowed in shadow. Fires burned everywhere—except in the government-protected zones, home only to those who could afford it. The exclusive one percent of New York’s citizens lived in extravagant comfort, while the poor were crammed into ramshackle barracks.

"My grandfather trusted his creations," Zara continued. "His paradise dwellers as much as his androids. He believed himself infallible, which by extension meant he believed his creations would reflect his perfection. But he was wrong, and his mistake cost him his life. His creation killed him. I won’t make the same mistake."

The CFO pressed his lips together, stepping closer to the window. He cast a contemplative look outside, where far below, Henry Thandros’s paradise bloomed. The Garden of Eden struck him as a relic, its residents embodying the dream the professor had once dared to dream in life.

"About the Garden," the CFO began, "this is your last chance to reverse your decision, Ms. Zara Thandros. If you don’t, those people down there won’t be around much longer."

The CFO liked to think of himself as a cold-blooded pragmatist. He hadn’t needed to sit in a personality modulator to magically become ambitious, ruthless, and driven—the formula for success had been in his blood since birth, and life had polished him like a raw diamond. But as he looked into Zara Thandros’s icy blue eyes, he realized that no maximum could ever truly be reached; there would always be someone who surpassed even the best. Zara Thandros was such a person, a paragon of integrity and determination. And while he admired her a lot, he feared her far more.

"For three whole years, we continued experimenting on innocent humans," Zara said. "But they consume far too many resources. And the therapy for the so-called Paradise residents costs a fortune. You, of all people, should know that as the one overseeing our finances. Tell me, how much of our annual revenue have we dedicated to my grandfather’s stupid research and to keeping those happy little hamsters down there alive and well? Tell me."

"Around three percent, Ms. Zara Thandros, out of nearly one trillion dollars annually."

"That adds up to billions wasted. But there’s another reason we’re ending this foolish man’s life project. If his vision had come true, and humans lived in harmony and peace without desire, who would need a personality modulator to become a successful politician or business magnate? No one would buy our products anymore." Zara shook her head. "The decision is final. In three days, on November 11, 2053, the Garden of Eden will burn, and the site will be leveled."

The CFO licked his lips and nodded.

"And the people inside? The… paradise dwellers?" he asked hesitantly.

"We’ll erase their memories and integrate them into society. As ordinary cancer patients, they’ll eke out their days in New York’s dirty boroughs. At most, they’ll live another year. Then they’ll be nothing but ghosts in the abandoned corridors of corporate history. A history the world must never know. That’s why we’ll demolish the research complex as well."

"What about the... perfect child?" the CFO asked. "It’s healthy. It could live a long life in our world outside the Garden and…"

The last rays of the setting sun struck the tower’s pinnacle, gilding the grand hall in warm light. The glow shimmered on the powdered skin of the corporate queen, whose expression hardened as she spoke words that seemed to steal the breath from the CFO’s lungs.

"Bringing the perfect child into the world was a grave mistake, a mistake my grandfather made, and one I must correct."

"You don’t mean to…"

"I won’t do anything," she said. "But I won’t save the perfect child either when the flames consume the Garden of Eden in three days. Let it save itself."

A bead of sweat rolled down the icy CFO’s temple. "But that won’t happen."

"After my grandfather’s death and the fall of the Brotherhood of the Knowing, the perfect child is the only threat to our empire. It’s the relic of his years of research—the embodiment of his vision. But a being like that, made purely of goodness and innocence, has no place in our world. Do you know what this child could do, Mortimer? It’s the only thing that could stop us. In one thing, my grandfather was right: sometimes sacrifices must be made."

Zara’s cold voice silenced the man. She let a long pause linger before adding, "The child has a favorite spot beneath the old tree. It’s there every day. When the flames consume the Garden of Eden in three days, the perfect child will be in a place it loves. Millions of people die every day in filthy alleys, hopeless. But this way of dying... at peace with the world, in a beautiful place, unknowing and unaware... should be a comfort to all of us. A life of glory, just as Henry always dreamed."

The man stared at Zara Thandros with wide eyes. She gave no further reaction, only kept her unyielding gaze fixed downward. Following her line of sight, the CFO’s eyes found the Garden of Eden. Though New York’s boroughs lay shrouded in shadow, evening in the Garden of Eden was still young, and the artificial sun shone high above the palisades.