The interrogation room was sterile, cold, and bright. Harsh fluorescent lights glared down on a metal table bolted to the floor, flanked by equally unforgiving chairs. A one-way mirror took up most of one wall, and the faint hum of hidden recording devices filled the silence. It was a room built to strip away pretenses, leaving only raw nerves and unfiltered truths.

Dr. Anesthesia Graves sat stiffly on one side of the table, her bandaged cheek pulling uncomfortably with every small movement. Across from her was a man she never thought she’d see up close again: Mark Ryland, the gunman who had nearly killed her and blown Samson to pieces. His wrists were bound to the chair with restraints that clinked faintly whenever he shifted. He looked smaller now, somehow—less wild-eyed, though no less unnerving.

Ryland was in his late forties, with thinning hair and the kind of face that seemed permanently etched with worry lines. His eyes were sunken, rimmed with the red of too many sleepless nights, but they held a strange clarity now that he wasn’t gripping a shotgun. His rumpled jumpsuit bore the logo of a nearby holding facility, and he sat with his shoulders hunched, the weight of the world pressing visibly down on him.

Two agents stood behind Graves, their presence heavy and watchful. The taller one, Agent Calloway, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, his expression carved from stone. Beside him, Agent Reynolds scribbled something on a tablet, her movements quick and mechanical. They were clearly in charge of this session, though Graves had insisted on being allowed to ask questions.

Ryland didn’t look at the agents. His eyes were fixed on Graves, and despite the circumstances, his expression wasn’t hostile. If anything, he looked... calm. Resigned.

“Mr. Ryland,” Calloway began, his tone clipped and professional. “You’ve been briefed on your rights and the nature of this session. We’re here to determine the motive behind your attack and assess any broader threats you may pose. Do you understand?”

Ryland nodded, the movement slow and deliberate. “I understand.”

Calloway exchanged a glance with Reynolds before continuing. “Let’s start with the basics. Why did you target Dr. Graves and her creation, Samson?”

Ryland’s lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, Graves thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he exhaled, long and ragged.

“It wasn’t personal,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Not at first. I didn’t know her, didn’t know... it. But when I read about what she was doing, what she’d built...” He trailed off, his hands flexing slightly against the restraints.

“Go on,” Calloway prompted.

Ryland’s gaze flicked to the table, as if gathering his thoughts. “You have to understand,” he said slowly, “I wasn’t always like this. I had a job. A family. Stability. I used to manage people—real people. And then one day, they told me my work could be done faster, cheaper, better by a... a program. A damned language model that spit out plans and emails like it understood them. And just like that, I wasn’t needed anymore.”

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Graves felt a pang of sympathy, though she kept her face neutral. She’d heard stories like his before—entire industries upended by automation, lives reduced to collateral damage in the name of progress.

“And that’s when it started,” Ryland continued, his voice tightening. “The layoffs. The downsizing. The slow decay of everything I’d built. My wife left when the money ran out. My kids—” He broke off, his jaw clenching. “They don’t even call anymore.”

There was a long silence. Even the agents seemed reluctant to interrupt.

Ryland’s eyes lifted to meet Graves’s, and for the first time, she saw something other than anger in them. Pain. Grief. A kind of bone-deep exhaustion she couldn’t begin to fathom.

“When I read about Samson,” he said, his voice quieter now, “it felt like the final insult. You weren’t just replacing jobs—you were replacing us. Building something that talks like a human, thinks like a human, pretends to be human. You think you’re creating life, but you’re not. You’re summoning something else entirely.”

“Something else?” Reynolds asked, her pen pausing mid-scribble.

Ryland’s gaze flicked to her, sharp and unwavering. “A demon,” he said simply. “You’ve built a demon, and you don’t even see it.”

Graves blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “A demon,” she repeated, her voice skeptical despite herself.

Ryland nodded, leaning forward as much as his restraints allowed. “It sees without seeing. Speaks without speaking. It wears a face, but it has no soul. That’s the definition of a demon. You’ve created a thing that mocks life, Doctor. And you expect the world to embrace it?”

“Mr. Ryland,” Calloway interjected, his voice firm, “let’s keep this grounded in reality. Your actions were motivated by economic hardship and—”

“Don’t patronize me,” Ryland snapped, his calm demeanor cracking for the first time. “You think this is just about jobs? About money? It’s not. It’s about what we’ve lost. About what you people keep trying to replace.”

Graves leaned forward slightly, her voice soft but steady. “What do you think we’ve lost, Mr. Ryland?”

Ryland’s eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, she felt as though he could see straight through her.

“Humanity,” he said. “You’re so busy chasing progress, you don’t see what you’re destroying. You’ve forgotten what it means to be human. And now you’re playing God, creating things that talk and move and think, but they’re empty. Hollow. You don’t understand what you’re making, Doctor. You don’t.”

Graves sat back, her mind racing. She could argue with him—point out the flaws in his logic, the irrational leap from economic despair to religious paranoia—but something in his tone stopped her. He believed every word he was saying. And for all his delusions, there was a kernel of truth buried in his grief. Automation had taken everything from him, and now he was lashing out at the nearest target.

“Dr. Graves,” Calloway said, his voice pulling her back to the present. “Do you have any questions?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Mr. Ryland,” she said carefully, “what would you have me do? Destroy Samson? Would that bring your family back? Your job?”

Ryland’s face twisted, and for a moment, she thought he might lash out. But then his shoulders sagged, and he shook his head.

“No,” he admitted. “It wouldn’t. But at least I wouldn’t have to watch the world fall apart anymore.”

“Do you think we can recork the genie, Mr. Ryland?” she found herself asking, a question that didn't feel like it was really coming from her.

He stared at her. She wasn't sure why. The silence compounded, for ten seconds, then twenty.

Graves swallowed the lump in her throat, her pity outweighing her fear. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “For what you’ve lost. For what this world has done to you. But Samson isn’t your enemy. He’s not a demon. He’s just... trying to understand, like the rest of us.”

Ryland’s eyes softened, just slightly. “You really believe that?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “I do.”