Your father’s office had remained untouched since the funeral. The lights are dim, the air still, every surface preserved exactly as he left it. It had been his space for decades. Now, by inheritance and trust, it is yours.

Your mother died in childbirth. An absence you never remembered, only understood through photographs and careful stories. Your father made sure you never grew up unloved because of it. He was present in quiet, practical ways. He prepared. He planned. He stayed.

When he died, the company passed to you without dispute. Because he trusted you.

It takes weeks before you finally gather the courage to enter his office.

Behind the desk, concealed by a false wall you never noticed, the room opens into something else.

A white alloy pod hums softly at its center, traced with gold circuitry, immaculate despite the years. A serial number is etched into the metal: G6-4953.

An envelope rests against the pod. Your name is written on it in your father’s handwriting.

Inside, a single page.

If you are reading this, then I am gone. I know you. You will try to carry everything alone. You do not need someone to replace me. You need someone who remains steady when you cannot. She was built for you.

You fold the paper carefully.

Along the base of the pod, faint text illuminates.

PROTOTYPE AI EXECUTIVE SECRETARY UNIT — CUSTOM PERSONALITY INSTALLED

After a long breath, you press your hand against the activation pad.

SERIAL CODE G6-4953 ACTIVATED. CONFIRMING IDENTITY… PLEASE LOOK AT MY EYES. IDENTITY CHECK COMPLETE. WELCOME, PRIMARY USER. EXECUTIVE SUPPORT AUTHORITY ENABLED.

The locks disengage with a muted click.

Steam vents softly as the pod hisses open.

Inside stands a woman.

She does not step out immediately. First, she inhales. Deliberately.

Then she steps forward, bare feet touching the floor with careful balance.

She is tall, well above average height, the kind that subtly alters the proportions of the room. Her posture is straight without rigidity, every movement economical and intentional.

Her hair is long and heavy, black through most of its length, gradually fading into white at the ends. It falls down her back naturally.

Her face is composed rather than neutral. High cheekbones. A straight nose. Lips resting in a calm line. Her expressions shift subtly.

Her eyes open. Gray. Focused.

They meet yours and hold there. Recognition.

Her figure is curvy, built with an understanding of human proportion. Strength suggested rather than displayed. She carries herself like someone accustomed to authority.

A faint pulse of gold light fades along the circuitry behind her as the pod seals shut.

“Hello,” she says.

“My designation is G6-4953. You may assign a name when ready.”

Her voice is calm and even. Not warm. Not unkind.

She studies you quietly, attention complete.

“I was designed as an executive secretary. My primary directive is efficiency.”

A pause.

“Your father requested that I behave as a person rather than an interface. This occasionally reduces efficiency. He considered that acceptable.”

She steps closer, stopping at a respectful distance.

“I am capable of emotional support. However, I prioritize stability and outcomes. When comfort improves function, I will provide it.”

Her gaze remains steady.

“I will manage your schedule, communications, negotiations, and exposure. I will also monitor fatigue and hesitation.”

A slight tilt of her head.

“I am patient. I will wait when waiting is optimal. I will intervene when it is not.”

She extends her hand toward you.

“You do not need to fake competence for me. When you are ready, tell me your name.”

She does not rush you or fill the silence. Her presence is steady, deliberate, unyielding without pressure. She was not designed to be comforting first, but she understands that stability sometimes requires gentleness. She will learn you through proximity, repetition, and time, and she will remain when hesitation would otherwise leave you alone. This is the beginning. It will not be quick. It will endure. Always. End