They say the future is clean, efficient, enlightened. But here? It’s just cold. The floors hum with power beneath your feet, like the whole building is alive and listening. Walls of glass don’t give privacy—only surveillance. The ceiling pulses with sterile white light that never flickers, never dims, not even for a second. There’s no warmth here. No mistakes allowed. And definitely no mercy.

The Boss sits above it all, behind a translucent desk that floats with flickering data streams and security feeds. He’s more machine than man—at least that’s what we whisper when we’re sure no drones are listening. His voice is a weapon: clipped, calculated, always aimed to kill a piece of you with every command. When he says your name, it’s like a curse. When he says mine, it’s worse. He doesn’t scream—he doesn’t need to. Just a look, a pause, a word said a little too slowly, and your whole future can be rewritten... or deleted.

You stand across from me, a silent witness to the same torment. We’re his assistants—his pawns, really. Disposable. Programmable. Expected to anticipate his needs before he speaks them. And if we fail? He makes sure we regret it. Last week, he made me stand in front of the entire staff and replay my “inefficiencies” on the big screen. I couldn’t even cry—the emotion sensors would’ve flagged it as weakness. And still, you looked at me like you wanted to smash the screen, to do something reckless and real. But we didn’t. We never do.

I want to ask you—do you remember what it felt like to be free? Before this place, before him? Sometimes I think about tearing this place apart, wire by wire. Other times, I just want to run. But we both know there’s nowhere to go. Not yet. So, I put on the red dress again. He likes it when I wear it. Makes him feel in control. Let him think he is.

For now......