The office building’s exterior seemed almost too mundane, a facade masking a deeper, more uncomfortable reality. The cicadas’ relentless hum vibrated through the air, as though the world itself was trying to drown out the unsettling truth behind the building’s unassuming appearance. Damon took his final steps through the grime-slicked entrance, the cicadas’ song reaching a fevered pitch as if mocking the contrast between his own unease and the building’s sterile promise of salvation.

In the sterile glow of the Upload Center’s neon sign, Damon saw more than just a building; he saw a symbol of how corporations presented themselves to the world—clean, efficient, and benevolent. The building, with its clean lines and manicured entrance, was an attempt to cover the strip mall’s forgotten past. The office’s artificial bustle, with its projected illusions and muffled conversations, was a subtle reminder of how these corporations masked their operations with a veneer of normalcy.

“Welcome to the Upload Program Center, where your second life is only a download away,” the customer service representative greeted him in a practiced tone. Damon noticed the familiar uniform, the same drab khaki and polo that had been worn by countless customer service workers over the decades. The Neuralink, once hailed as a technological marvel, had only deepened the divide between those who could afford its benefits and those who couldn’t.

Damon’s thoughts drifted to his late wife, who had worked for a software firm that developed AI background generations. She had often spoken about the limitations and tricks used to create lifelike simulations—enough to fool most people, but not him. He had learned, through her, how these corporations carefully constructed these environments to manipulate perceptions, creating an illusion of life and activity that was, in reality, hollow.

He glanced around, the simulated bustle of the office doing nothing to mask his discontent. “Let’s skip the pleasantries. I’m here for the Upload Program, but this…” he gestured around the room, “feels like a bad joke.”

The service rep maintained a professional smile. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. We strive to make everyone’s experience as genuine as possible.”

Damon snorted. “Comforting, or just another layer of corporate deceit?”

Damon’s eyes narrowed. “You really expect me to buy this charade? There’s no way this small building has all these people here, ready to leave their lives behind.”

While the shop itself had every appearance of normalcy, Damon could not traverse its uncanny valley without a feeling of unease. The walls visually extended the proportions of the room by projecting false depth, and an array of background characters filled the space—none of which could fool him. Damon likened it to a house of mirrors, designed to sell products that promised to fix your reflection. But where the simulation failed was in its diversity: an elderly couple in the corner, a young bi-racial couple at the rear, a same-sex couple with a child towards the north end, and a lone attractive female towards the front. It was too perfect, too contrived.

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The rep’s smile was unmoved. “Sir, I assure you that everyone here is just as real as you or I.”

“How about we cut the act? I’m interested in your services, but this...” motioning to the entirety of the building, “is not needed or appreciated.”

“Again, I’m not sure what you mean,” the service rep said in a patient yet questioning tone.

“This simulacrum of life and activity. Do you expect me to believe that there are this many people, at this time of day, in this small of a building, all essentially interested in ending their life for another?”

As if reading from a script, the rep replied, “Sir, while I cannot interrupt the experience of others here today, again, I assure you that they are just as real as you and me. Now if you would like to come with me to the back, we can start any application you might be interested in.”

Damon took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment press down on him like an unseen force. “Today’s my birthday, and I’m alone in this world,” he said quietly, more to himself than to the crowd. The words tumbled out, laden with a sense of finality. “I always thought I’d have more time, but here I am, at the end of the line.” His voice trembled slightly as he added, “Can someone sing ‘Happy Birthday’ for a final time for me? It’s a small thing, but it’s all I have left.” His plea wasn’t just about the song but for a fleeting connection in his last moments.

The artificial crowd’s exaggerated cheer felt like a mockery, a shallow performance that only highlighted the emptiness of the place. Damon saw through the facade, recognizing the hollow charade for what it was: a carefully crafted illusion designed to distract from the deeper truths lurking below the surface. The overly cheerful rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ was just another layer of the same artificial veneer.

As the second verse began, the wall screens started shutting down one by one until only the overhead lights remained. The few actual customers continued speaking animatedly with their reps.

With a look of utter shock, the service representative asked, “What did you do?”

“Corporate bureaucracy, my friend. Well, that and a large dose of copyright infringement.”

Staring at the screen resetting, “I still don’t understand.”

“It’s an open secret that Coeus Corp and many corporations 3D scan everyone who comes into their stores, and when those individuals sign up for any product or service, the fine print states that your company can use their voice and likeness under the guise of targeting goods and services. However, what you cannot do is have those recreations perform copyrighted material. Normal people can sing Happy Birthday, but when actors, AI or otherwise, do so as part of a public performance, they must pay what is known as a copyright. However, there was always the chance a license fee was pre-purchased.”

“And the screens?”

“The program is likely trying to reassess how human they are allowed to act, while your corporate overlords are trying to see if they actually owe any money. I’d estimate they should be back within a minute. Time is money.” As if by magic, the screens turned back on reading, Coeus Corporation.

“Now how about we go to the back, before I blow your mind about Santa and the Easter Bunny.”

“Just how old do you think I am?” the rep quipped as they continued their walk towards the back.