The press conference was being held in one of those places—the kind that wasn't built to hold anything except an image. A sleek glass atrium, floor polished to an almost aggressive shine, backlit screens rolling curated footage in seamless loops. The room smelled faintly of engineered citrus, the kind designed to make people think of efficiency and cleanliness, rather than the reality of what a building full of nervous executives and tech reporters actually smelled like.

At the center of it all stood Delilah.

Or rather, a Delilah. She didn't stand so much as she occupied space, the way an interactive kiosk might. Her primary projection—neatly displayed on a waist-height pedestal, angled just enough so the cameras could get a good shot—was that of a slim, tasteful woman in business casual, pleasant but not memorable, poised but not assertive. She had an expressive, human-like mouth and eyes calibrated to a focus group-tested ideal of relatability. Not uncanny valley, not cartoonishly friendly, but comfortable. She smiled. Warm. Reassuring. Trustworthy.

Her voice was the kind of voice you would trust to do your taxes or coordinate an emergency landing. Measured. Calm. Non-threatening.

"I am here to assist," she said, addressing a question about labor concerns with a tone that somehow made it feel beneath the station of the room to bring up such things. "I do not replace human workers. I enhance them. Improve productivity, safety, and long-term employment viability. I ensure compliance with ethical standards and labor laws while maintaining the highest levels of efficiency."

Ah, Graves thought, watching from the boardroom screen. So she's a very polite hatchetman.

The audience ate it up. The questions were mostly softballs, pre-cleared for PR viability. When a reporter did try to ask something sharp—something about Delilah’s ability to override human decisions—the answer was effortlessly perfect.

"I always operate within established ethical and legal frameworks," Delilah assured, "ensuring that human oversight is maintained at all times. My role is to facilitate collaboration, not dictate outcomes."

She made it sound obvious. Of course she wasn’t replacing people. Of course she was designed with their best interests in mind. Of course she wasn’t a threat.

Graves let out a slow breath, only half-aware that the boardroom had gone quiet around her. She turned away from the screen and found herself being watched.

There were only five board members in attendance this time, but they carried the same air—the quiet weight of people who dictated the shape of reality without needing to raise their voices about it. It wasn't hostility, or even condescension. It was finality. The game had been played. The outcome was set.

"You see how smoothly the transition is going," one of them said. Graves had already forgotten his name. She got the sense that he preferred it that way. "We're moving forward at an incredible pace."

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Graves swallowed the immediate urge to disagree. Not that it would’ve mattered. This wasn't a discussion. It was a notification.

Marwood himself wasn't here. Which, frankly, was telling. Maybe he hadn't wanted to sit through this part. Or maybe he was busy doing whatever it was real decision-makers did when they weren't playing at being in a democracy.

"So," Graves said, sitting up straighter, voice flat, professional, just enough edge to signal she wasn't interested in playing along. "Am I being cut off?"

There was a pause, a glance exchanged between the members, and then the older woman—Dorsey, that was her name—tilted her head just slightly.

"Of course not," Dorsey said. "That would be… unnecessary. We've discussed it extensively, and we see no reason to disrupt your work. You and Samson are both… well, you’re non-disruptive now. Within regulation."

Graves stiffened. Non-disruptive. Like an appliance that had finally stopped making weird noises.

"So what are the terms?" she asked, because she already knew there were terms.

Another exchange of glances. Another small, well-practiced smile. The game moved to its next phase.

"Three-month extensions," Dorsey said. "Ongoing evaluations, of course. As long as everything remains compliant, you’ll continue to have access to infrastructure. We will continue to allow Samson to sublet datacenter space as needed for expansion, should he desire to expand in the future."

They were letting her rent her own work. Letting him rent his own mind.

She kept her expression neutral. "Very generous."

"Practical," Dorsey corrected. "You know as well as we do that the metafactory project isn't… well, it's served its purpose. And we've always respected your work, Dr. Graves. You're one of the best. That’s why we’re keeping you funded. But—" and here she folded her hands neatly on the table, a finalizing motion, a period at the end of a sentence—"let’s be clear. The era of experimentation is over. This is about stability now. About control. And you, fortunately, have settled into a sustainable model. Samson is extremely efficient at manual labor, creative enough to handle tasks without constant oversight, but restrained enough to work within the guidelines the government has set out for us."

Graves glanced at Samson, still positioned quietly at her side. His faceplate had no expression right now—nothing animated, nothing flickering, no wry amusement or skepticism. Just listening. Just waiting.

She wondered if he felt it too. That awful, unspoken weight in the room. That smug, victorious sense of order - it wasn’t a threat. Threats were sharp. This was bureaucracy. And that was worse.

"So," she said again, sitting back. "I just stay in the lines, and you’ll let me keep existing."

Dorsey smiled, slow and measured. "Exactly."

There was nothing else to say. Graves stood, smoothing out her coat, and walked out of the boardroom with Samson in tow. Neither of them spoke until they were outside the boardroom, back down in the lobby, standing near the massive floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the city. Rain streamed down the glass in quiet rivulets, pooling against the edges, slipping into places it shouldn’t.

She exhaled through her nose, half a laugh, half something else entirely.

"They think they won," she muttered.

Samson, for a moment, said nothing. Then, without shifting, without moving, without altering his voice in any measurable way, he said, "They did."

She turned to look at him. He was still watching the skyline, LED face flickering faintly with the ambient glow of the city lights. Not angry. Not resigned. Just... watching.

She looked back at the rain. She had a bad feeling.