Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Amelia

This will be difficult to explain to the police.

"I'm sorry, Officer. I know it's not in my job description to care for the company fish, but neither was watching them suffer, so here I am."

Arguing that it's more of a rescue than anything probably wouldn't help either. Or telling them I've spent my evenings for the last week training for Operation Tetra Freedom. But if I'm going to risk my well-paid job for some tiny fish, I'm not going in unprepared.

Ever since Elysium installed sleek cylindrical tanks in several office hallways to enhance the workplace aesthetic last week, I've been distracted from my usual work as a systems integration specialist, unable to ignore the plight of the fish trapped within. Sure, those tanks look beautiful and are another testament to the company's commitment to cutting-edge design, but to me, they're nothing short of a stylish prison.

And I am intimately familiar with those.

So, like any self-respecting tech geek with too much time on her hands, I've spent the last few days researching these little guys and using the details of the mission to fine-tune my secret AR project.

I may have also been inspired and informed by the many heist movies I've watched during quiet weekends in my apartment—which is every weekend—to know that preparation is everything. Okay, so maybe those thieves never stole fish from their workplace, but the principles are the same, right?

Standing in my apartment, I adjust my glasses and tap the side to activate the AR interface. With a slight hum, my living room fades into the background as the simulation begins, and the real world dissolves completely, replaced by a digital overlay that places me in the office hallway of Elysium, where those poor tetras are currently imprisoned.

My carefully crafted digital world is precise, right down to the last detail of the modern, gray artwork on the walls to the pattern on the floor. If I'm going to steal fish and use technology made by my own hand to do it, I will practice until every element is perfect so I can do it right.

This is the kind of perfectionism I can stomach. The type that innovates technology and improves lives, no matter how small.

The fluorescent lights hum above me, the polished white floors gleam underfoot, and at the end of the hallway stands the sleek, cylindrical aquarium—home to hundreds of iridescent bodies flickering like living jewels. The simulation is so accurate I can almost feel the cool, conditioned air of the office and hear the faint hum of servers working tirelessly in the background.

"Okay, let's run through this again," I mutter to myself as I reach out to interact with the floating holographic controls before me, my fingers swiping through virtual menus with practiced ease.

First, the essentials. A small net, a plastic bag, and—just in case I need to do any last-minute recon—a tiny flashlight. The AR world around me responds instantly and intuitively. The net materializes in my hand, the mesh rustling softly. The plastic bag appears next. It's bigger than what the internet recommends for transporting fish their size, but really, I might as well make sure the tetras are comfortable during their escape.

"Here, fishy, fishy," I whisper, feeling as ridiculous as I probably look to anyone who might see me without the special glasses that reveal my augmented reality. But it's not like anyone is ever here, so I stretch out on my tiptoes because, even at five foot ten, I still have to stretch to peer over the virtual tank's rim.

The tetras swim in frantic, tight circles—a sad, desperate dance in their corporate glass cage.

Timing is everything.

I wait for the tetras to drift close enough, and then— swoosh —I scoop with the net, capturing at least twenty of them in one swift motion. Their thrashing is so realistic that I almost feel guilty, wishing I could explain to them that they're on the way to a better life as I carefully transfer them into the water-filled plastic bag.

Success.

Though this part has been successful the last dozen times I've done it, so I hold my celebrations .

The simulation isn't just about getting the tetras out—it's about anticipating every possible disaster. I've programmed in random events like an office door opening unexpectedly, a coworker walking by with a stack of papers, or the hallway lights flickering at the worst possible moment. Alternatively, someone could throw a peanut at me or have a tragic food accident where a container of peanut sauce is dumped on my head and I die. Because, let's face it, if something can go wrong, it probably will .

And in this simulation, it always does.

Just as I think it, a virtual coworker steps out of their office across the hall, forcing me to retract my hand quickly since it's too late to hide behind the aquarium. I tuck the plastic bag behind my back and pretend I'm just admiring the tank.

That was close.

It's almost like playing a high-stakes video game, except the stakes will be real, and there's no reset button if I get caught.

Once I'm confident in my timing and have perfected my innocent, nerdy-loiterer look, I move on to the final stage of the simulation—a practice run of the escape. This is where things get serious. I should be able to just walk out of there casually, but I rehearse the exact route back to my apartment, accounting for every possible obstacle. The AR overlays a map of the office building onto my vision, highlighting the least-traveled hallways and the optimal exit points in case I need to make a quick getaway.

I even simulate the weight of the bag in my backpack, adjusting my posture and movements to avoid drawing attention. After all, nothing screams suspicious, like someone hunched over like they're smuggling gold bars out of Fort Knox.

The simulation doesn't end at the office door. I make my way through the streets back to my apartment, feeling the virtual world blend seamlessly with the real one as I walk on the spot. The familiar contours of my living room start to reappear as I approach my simulated apartment, and by the time I ‘open' the door, I'm already halfway back to reality. The transition is so smooth that, for a moment, it feels as if nothing has changed. The holographic controls fade away, leaving the real world in its place, but the adrenaline in my veins remains .

"Okay, let's do this," I say to myself, closing the interface with a swipe of my hand.

My heart is pounding, adrenaline coursing through me as if I've already done the deed. But I've rehearsed this enough. I know every step by heart, thanks to my AR.

Now, all that's left to do is to execute it with real life and real people, which does not lean into my natural strengths.

I grab my backpack, double-checking that the net and plastic bag are securely tucked inside, and step out the door. The elevator ride down feels like it takes forever, giving my mind time to race through the plan once more. The quiet hum of the building's systems in the lobby does little to calm the thudding in my chest as I make my way toward Elysium, even though it's just across the street.

When I reach the company building, the security guard at the entrance barely glances at me as I swipe my ID card—it's normal for people to come back after hours to work overtime or retrieve things they've forgotten—and I made sure it's not too late for my return to be implausible. I've timed it so the hallways should be empty, but my being here won't raise too much suspicion since there are others lingering in their offices. Still, my stomach flips.

The elevator ride up also feels endless, each ding heightening my anticipation. The sterile corridors seem to stretch on forever as I pass the rows of cubicles, finally approaching the hallway that leads to my office.

And now, here I am, standing in front of the real deal—the actual fish tank. No simulation this time. This is the moment I've been preparing for.

The tetras swim lazily in the tank, blissfully unaware of the meticulous planning I've put into their escape. Lucky them. They have no idea how many late-night coding sessions and cups of coffee have gone into securing their freedom.

I contemplate once more whether saving those fish is worth risking everything as I glance to the upper corner of the hallway wall.

There are cameras, after all.

I can only hope nobody frequently checks the hallway surveillance, as the real security risks are in the offices where the bigger tech projects are housed.

Elysium, one of the most innovative tech companies in Seattle, boasts the most advanced artificial intelligence department in the US and claims to pioneer the future of smart living solutions. The company's vision— to create seamlessly integrated technology that enhances daily life— sounds noble. We're supposed to be the architects of a new reality where technology and human existence blend effortlessly, improving not just functionality but also the quality of life.

And still, they failed a handful of tiny fish.

Well, not a handful. I'd guess in this tank alone there are a thousand of them. The blue and red-striped fish swim in tight, overcrowded circles—far too many confined to far too little space.

Poor little guys.

Neon tetras need space, plants, and hiding nooks made from rocks and driftwood—a proper home, not just a glass bowl. They can survive like this, but it's not living.

And that feels so familiar.

I did try to talk to my boss about the fish living in a glass coffin, but he didn't seem to give a shit.

"They're just dumb fish. They don't need more. And I'm not the one who decided to put the aquariums there."

True, that's above your pay grade.

I'm allowed to be petty. The man is a chauvinistic ass .

But maybe I didn't word it right. Honestly, I'm just not great at talking. I'm good with code, numbers, and algorithms—technology that doesn't need me to excel at understanding people or their emotions.

An image of my parents flashes in my mind.

I guess I'm not even good with people who don't have emotions.

Let's just say I'm not great at peopling.

I'm good with animals, or at least I think I could be. I've never even had a pet. Back in London, I was never allowed to have one. And later, when I struck out on my own, I didn't have the time for anything besides work, even though I've always wanted nothing more.

So, this will be a trial by fire.

Or water.

My new one-hundred-and-eighty-gallon tank, complete with water pumps, filters, plants, sand, rocks, and LED lighting, is ready and waiting for its first inhabitants. All I need is the fish.

Piece of cake.

A coworker steps out from an office a few feet away and walks past, offering a polite smile, which I nervously return. My heart is racing, almost pounding out of my chest, and I'm panting slightly. But I trained for this. I know what to do. Just stay calm, act naturally, and smile back. They have no idea what I'm about to pull off and that it could get me fired.

Not that I have anyone who would give a fuck.

The only people I exchange a few words with each day are my boss and the coworker I share an office with. The first hates me, which is mutual, and the second is just as introverted as I am.

This place feels like a haven for brilliant minds who probably spent their high school years dodging bullies, which made them a little shy and a lot skittish.

I work in the Smart Home Development Department, where we craft algorithms that enable our systems to anticipate and adapt to a homeowner's needs. The idea is that someone's home should automatically know when to dim the lights, adjust the temperature, or even suggest a recipe for dinner based on what's in the refrigerator, and so much more. It's all about creating an intuitive living experience—that's the company's goal, at least.

My specific project, which I've kept under wraps, takes this concept a step further. I'm developing augmented reality, or AR, that integrates directly into living spaces. The end goal is for it to be lensless, no glasses or screens—just life, enhanced by layers of digital information that blend naturally into your surroundings as the furniture. It's not quite done yet, and nobody knows I'm working on it.

But if I can pull it off…

That would be pretty cool if I say so myself.

And a giant middle finger to both of my parents, which is also cool, not that they would be interested enough to ever see it.

At least some of those fish will soon see more of my work.

I look around one more time. It's not exactly corporate espionage, but what I'm about to do feels thrillingly rebellious.

Who's the good girl now, huh?

My heart races with a mix of nervous excitement and guilt as I wait for the right moment.

I've got this.

Carefully, I pull out the small net and a plastic bag from my backpack. The bag rustles softly as I unfold it and dip it into the water to fill it. Holding my breath, I wait for the tetras to swim closer and then scoop .

Four.

I've got four out of a thousand.

Staring at the net, disappointment creeps in. Four? Seriously? In the simulation, I always managed to catch at least twenty in one go. I curse myself for being so damn optimistic while coding.

I watch as the remaining fish dart to the bottom of the tank, clearly spooked, leaving me no chance to get more.

Little strokes fell great oaks.

It seems like I'll have to do this a few times. Maybe that's better, anyway—it would probably be noticeable if I took too many out at once, and it's good to have hobbies.

Moving them to the bag and securing the top, I make sure it's airtight while ensuring there is enough air for them to breathe comfortably.

Glancing around quickly, I'm relieved to see the coast is still clear. With the utmost care, I slide the bag into my backpack, cushioning it between a folded sweater and a soft scarf to protect my fragile cargo.

"You're going to a better place," I reassure them in a hushed tone as I zip them inside.

With my heart still thudding loudly against my ribs, I make a beeline for the exit. Each step is measured, and my pace is brisk but controlled to avoid drawing attention.

This isn't just a rescue, it's a small act of defiance, a silent protest against neglect.

Just because someone doesn't require much does not mean they only deserve the bare minimum.

As I step out into the late August evening air, the weight in my backpack feels like a promise—a new beginning, not just for those four little tetras, but maybe, with their simple presence, an end to my own loneliness as well.