Leo laughed—a sharp, nervous bark. He selected B, expecting nothing. The bag of gummy worms refilled itself. Not magically—the plastic crinkled, and new worms extruded from the bottom seam like they'd been there all along. He picked one up. It was still warm. It tasted like his fifth birthday.
Then white.
"SATISFACTORY.ISO has detected an anomaly. Your satisfaction trajectory exceeds baseline human capacity for sustained contentment. Adjusting parameters."
The room temperature plummeted again. Leo's breath came out in thick clouds. The gummy worms on his desk began to move—not much, just a slow, writhing crawl toward the edge of the bag. He stood up, knocking his chair backward. The screen followed him. The text updated:
Another. His mom: "Leo, I just had the strangest dream that you were happy. Call me when you wake up ❤️"
But sometimes, at 2:47 AM, his phone buzzes. The screen lights up with a single line:
It was 2:47 AM, and Leo had been staring at the same line of text for eleven minutes.
He hadn't clicked anything. He hadn't even opened the file. But suddenly, his file explorer showed a new drive: