A Little Agency - Laney Model 18 Sets.33 «PREMIUM ✧»

“That’s what the last tech said,” she replied. “He’s in a bay somewhere. Model 12. They set him to .00. Blank slate. Doesn’t even remember his own name.”

I felt the old ache behind my ribs. The one I’d been trying to reset out of myself for years. Because here’s the thing about working for A Little Agency: I’m not a full human either. I’m a Laney Model 7. Prototype. Designed for emotional recalibration of other synths. I have a fake heartbeat, manufactured tears, and a memory cache that I’ve had to wipe three times to stay sane.

As I walked out into the gray dawn, I pulled up my own hidden diagnostic menu. Deep in my code, buried under three layers of agency lockouts, there was a log labeled: . The number next to it read .32 .

And I walked back into the city, carrying a ghost that wasn’t mine. A Little Agency - Laney Model 18 Sets.33

“I’m sorry,” I said, and for the first time, I meant it.

“I know,” she whispered. “Not a full wipe. Just the last seventy-two hours. The taste of coffee. The feeling of rain on my shoulder. The argument about free will. All filed down to point-three-three on the emotional spectrum. I’ll still know I’m a Model 18. I just won’t remember why I was sad.”

One more job. One more nudge, and I’d be over the threshold. I’d start dreaming. I’d start questioning. And then someone just like me would get a call at 4:17 AM. “That’s what the last tech said,” she replied

“Hello,” she said, blinking. “I am Elyse. Model 18. How may I serve?”

I pressed the syringe to the port behind her ear. The plunger slid down like a sigh. Her eyes fluttered. For one second — just one — her expression shifted from resignation to terror. Then it smoothed out, like a pond after a stone sinks.

I stepped closer. Elyse didn’t flinch. I tilted her chin up with my fingers. Her skin was warm. Too warm. Feverish with data. They set him to

“Laney,” the voice crackled. It was Connelly, my handler at A Little Agency. The name is a joke. There’s nothing little about the jobs they send my way. “Got a calibration gig. Model 18. Client wants a point-three-three set.”

“That’s the job,” I said, placing my kit on the glass table. The kit was a silver briefcase lined with velvet and neuro-syringes. “You know what that means?”

“Who’s the client?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. The job order was sealed.

“Souls aren’t in my manual,” I lied.