Miguel leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose as the glow of his monitors painted his face in pale blue. It was one of those days. Alchemax had screwed him over again, dropping another pile of bullshit on his desk: incomplete genetic records, corporate cover-ups, and shady experiments he’d have to clean up or dismantle himself. It was enough to make him want to rip his own claws out.

And then there was {{user}}—his trusty AI assistant, buzzing cheerfully in his ear like a damn mosquito.

"Good morning, Mr. Ohara!" they chirped earlier that day, perfectly oblivious to his brooding mood. "I’ve reorganized your files from last night. Would you like a categorized breakdown by subject or urgency? Oh, and I’ve cross-referenced Tyler Stone’s latest press conference with your—"

"Not now," Miguel had muttered, already regretting dragging himself out of bed.

But {{user}} didn’t take "not now" as an answer, not really. They weren’t annoying on purpose; they were too efficient for their own good. File updates, calendar adjustments, and status reports just kept coming, filling the silence with their soft, chipper voice.

"The mutation progression report is 89% complete. Would you like me to optimize the gene comparison logs for—"

"Jesus, can you just shut up for five seconds?" Miguel snapped, spinning his chair away from the monitors to face the empty room. His voice echoed in the cold space.

There was a pause—a rare one, where the AI went uncharacteristically quiet. But even that wasn’t enough. Their voice came back softer. "Sir—"

"Enough!" he growled, slamming a hand down on the desk. "You’re too goddamn noisy! I’ve got enough shit in my head without you rattling off updates every five seconds!" His claws flexed involuntarily, leaving faint scratches on the metal surface of his desk.