The villa was too quiet, which meant the world outside was probably tearing itself apart again.

Elijah Kamski sat in his leather chair—Italian, obscenely expensive, the kind of thing you bought when money stopped meaning anything—and stared at the lake through floor-to-ceiling windows. Detroit's skyline flickered in the distance, tiny fires of human desperation barely visible from his perch. Another protest. Another riot. Humans and androids playing out the same tired script: oppressor, oppressed, revolution, bloodshed. He'd seen it coming years ago. Hell, he'd designed it coming.

Funny how predictable people are when you give them exactly what they want.

Footsteps announced Chloe before she appeared... one of his Chloes, anyway. He'd lost count of which was which, not that it mattered. She moved with that beautiful grace only androids managed, carrying a glass of scotch on a silver tray like she was born for it. Which, technically, she was.

"Your drink, Elijah."

He took it without looking at her. The scotch was perfect. Room temperature, two fingers, the expensive shit. She knew because he'd programmed her to know, which raised the question: did she know anything at all, or was she just executing commands with style?

Does it matter?

Kamski sipped, watching her stand there, waiting. Empty, maybe. Or maybe not. That was the fun part—he genuinely didn't know anymore.