Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Amelia

The locks disengage with a soft click as I hold my smartwatch against the pad beneath the door handle, praying the headlines tomorrow don't read ‘ British Tech Whiz, 25, Nets Jail Time in Daring Fish Heist.'

Everything in this building is set up to be used with our devices, but there's a hole for a manual key as well, a reminder that even the best technology has its failings, and it's always good to have a backup plan.

My apartment is a modern space washed in light tones of white and beige and dotted with green plants that give it life and a sense of sanctuary. As I step inside, the silence greets me like an old friend.

Closing the door behind me, I lock it with a quick flick of my wrist—a habit by now—and the smart home system springs back to life. I'd shut it down earlier before heading out. There was no point in racking up a high electricity bill if I might end up in jail, right? Better safe than sorry… or broke.

"Lights on, seventy percent," I command, and the space illuminates with a warm, welcoming glow. "Blinds open," I add, and the window coverings retract to reveal the sun setting slowly between the buildings.

It's a view that never fails to take my breath away, no matter how often I see it.

I slip off my shoes and head straight to the kitchen counter, where I place my backpack. Shaking off the lingering anxiety, I take my dinner out of the refrigerator and slide it into the microwave, commanding the smart kitchen to heat it up—it's nothing fancy, just some leftover tomato soup.

Cooking was never a skill I picked up, thanks to a childhood of perfectly curated meals that appeared like magic, courtesy of the house staff. Now, it's just me and the microwave, a partnership born of necessity rather than passion.

With careful hands, I take out the bag holding the neon tetras from my backpack. "Let's get you settled," I murmur to them as they flicker nervously.

I float the sealed bag in the tank to acclimate them to their new environment. The microwave beeps, signaling that dinner is ready. I collect my bowl and sit at my dining table, the warm soup a small comfort in the otherwise suffocating silence of the apartment.

This is my home, yet it also feels like my cage—a place where I've isolated myself not just from my past but also from any potential friendships or connections that could have filled these quiet moments.

Unable to stand the silence any longer, I command, "Play "Für Elise-Reimagined" by Alexander Joseph."

The piano sounds fill the space with the familiar melody. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting the memory that always comes up with the song wash over me so it's out of the way and I can enjoy the music for what it is.

My defiance .

The polished black keys of the grand piano glimmer under the lavish ballroom lights. I sit, my fingers lightly touching the cool ivory, my heart pounding not with excitement but nerves.

Tonight, my family is holding one of its many charity events, and the room is alive with the rich and influential, all here to mingle and showcase their generosity. But for me, it's just another stage set by my parents, another script to follow—except tonight, I've changed the ending.

I've been ushered through the classics for hours, note by note, the music flowing from years of rigid, disciplined practice.

Piano lessons, tutoring, tennis lessons, church—it's all been laid out for me since I could remember. My life is timed to the minute, packed with everything they've decided is essential. No time for what I want, no time for late-night reads or anything that's a little fun. But over the years, the piano transformed from a shackle into an escape. Playing became my solitary freedom, the music a vessel carrying my thoughts away from the crushing expectations.

But not tonight.

I draw a deep breath and launch into the final piece, a modern rendition of "Für Elise" by Ludwig van Beethoven. It's unexpected, unconventional—rebellious. I pour every ounce of my frustration, dreams, and defiance into the keys. The music swirls around the room, vibrant and alive, each note a declaration.

I'm still behind the mask they make me wear.

They informed me earlier today that they have planned out my entire educational path over my head. It's not the college I dreamed of, MIT in the US, where I was accepted into a leading tech program that promised a future I could be passionate about, far away from them. Instead, they chose a university for me.

Here in London.

At least they let me have computer science as my major.

And I'm supposed to act as if I'm grateful for that.

It has just enough prestige to it.

I'm starting university at sixteen, having skipped some grades. And without their permission to study abroad, I'm anchored here, in this godforsaken, opulent prison, potentially for another eight years if I pursue the PhD they expect.

As the last note of my modern rendition of the classic lingers in the air, a defiant echo, the room fills with hesitant applause. I stand and bow stiffly, my eyes scanning the reactions in the crowd—mostly shocked, some intrigued, others clearly disapproving. I step away from the piano, aiming for the anonymity of the crowd and the trays of food the waiters are holding.

But I don't make it far.

My father quickly intercepts my passage, his grip firm on my upper arm. The tulle of the hideous lavender dress they made me wear rustles when he pulls me to a stop. He hisses, "What was that, Amelia Charlotte?" His smile returns as someone passes by, his mask of civility snapped back into place.

As soon as they're gone, he pulls me out of the ballroom and up the stairs to my room, his grip unyielding.

"I haven't eaten yet," I protest weakly, feeling my fingers twitch.

"That serves you right," he retorts, glaring down at me with a mixture of anger and disappointment. "You're a disgrace, turning this ball into some sort of spectacle."

He leaves, slamming the door behind him, and the sound reverberates like thunder through my bones.

Alone now, I slump against the cool wood of the door, my body sagging under the weight of his disapproval. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps as if I've been running.

Compelled by the nagging itch, my fingers reflexively seek comfort. They find the hair at my neck, twisting and pulling at the roots.

Never where they could see.

They can't find out.

The pain is sharp, piercing through the fog of my emotions and keeping me from crying—a real, tangible sensation that anchors me back to the present.

It's a startling kind of release, one that frightens me with its intensity yet fascinates me with its effectiveness. As strands of long brown hair come loose in my hands, a twisted relief floods through me.

It's control, I realize. Control in a life where I have so little.

Even though I knew that particular memory would haunt me as soon as I put on the song, it still ruined my appetite, so I set my spoon down on the table, looking again through the large front window over Seattle.

Back in my teenage years, the habit of pulling my hair had escalated until I had bald spots hidden behind my ears and at the base of my skull. Fortunately, I have so much hair that no one ever noticed.

But the shame?

It was always there, gnawing at me.

Not good enough.

Initially, I thought I was controlling something, gaining some autonomy in my meticulously planned-out world. But that notion crumbled quickly.

It isn't control. It's a loss of control, a compulsion that dominates me. It's unconscious, and I only realize I'm doing it when the damage is already done. Others might bite their nails or pick their skin when stressed. What I do is practically the same, but somehow, it feels worse.

During those times, stress from my parents' expectations and the pressures of college often became overwhelming. So much so that I just couldn't stop. I found myself tying my right hand—the one I use to hurt myself—to my desk or around my waist to prevent it from pulling my hair without my noticing.

It was a desperate measure for a desperate time.

Until I couldn't stand it anymore and realized I was smarter than that.

So, I developed a gesture detection technology for my smartwatch. It vibrates to alert me whenever it detects the specific motion my hand makes when I start to pull my hair. It's the reason I wear my watch on my dominant hand.

This feedback is crucial for me. It's enough to interrupt my behavior, making me aware of what I'm doing and allowing me the moment I need to choose a healthier coping mechanism, like taking a deep breath or listening to a piano piece.

And it works.

Mostly.

Now, living in Seattle, I've managed to keep the compulsion at bay. The urge only really returns when I have to talk to my parents. The mere sound of one of their voices is enough to pull me back to that vulnerable place.

Maybe I should apply a voice mod to their calls.

Wait , that's not a bad idea.

"Note, look into voice mod for calls."

I should have a bit of time to try this out. Mother still calls me every other week, but that's far less stressful than having them around .

Cleaning up, I take in my perfectly automated home. It does everything but fill the void of loneliness.

"But that's why you guys are here now, aren't you?" I ask the tetras, finally preparing to move them from the bag into the big tank.

As the fish adapt to their new surroundings, I reach up and touch the side of my glasses—subtle, chocolate brown frames that match my long hair. With a light press of a barely noticeable button, my augmented reality system springs back to life. A holographic control center cascades before my eyes, overlaying my living room with floating icons and interactive data that meld seamlessly with its layout.

This is far more than just a smart home gadget. It's a vision I've been working on for the last two years.

I've invented and fine-tuned this system here in my own space, pushing well beyond the standard applications of AR. The state of the art still requires glasses or lenses to see the augmented reality and motion sensors or cameras for interaction on the body.

With my current setup, I've integrated the technology into my everyday glasses, and the advanced motion sensors are spread out all over my apartment. This means I at least don't have to wear heavy equipment anymore.

Yet, what I'm developing is poised to revolutionize our interaction with technology. My goal is to pioneer a lensless AR system—an interface driven entirely by voice commands and hand gestures, eliminating the need to wear any physical hardware at home. This idea initially stemmed from the gesture detection system I created to manage my hair-pulling habit. That small personal project planted the seed for something much bigger.

When life gives you lemons and all that…

Now, my apartment is rigged with a complex network of cameras to give the system the ability to track my motions and infrared sensors that blanket the space with digital projections. These holograms create an environment where I can manipulate virtual objects just by reaching out—like the futuristic controls of a spaceship, but it's just your everyday digital workspace floating right before you.

Imagine sitting on the couch and writing an email with just the screen and keyboard the AR provides for you. You're essentially typing on air.

The underlying technology incorporates very advanced motion detection that continuously scans the room. But it doesn't simply track movement like the smart home devices currently on the market that can be faulty if you sit still for too long.

It thermal maps, distinguishing between living beings and inanimate objects, and knows where anyone is in the room at all times. And while practically scanning you nonstop, it also monitors your health. By detecting changes in body temperature and other physiological signals like an increased heart rate, the system can assess if I'm getting ill or feeling stressed, providing a seamless health overview without any physical contact.

This was more of an unexpected side effect of the programming, but I went with it, and it's fascinating, even if it's only a prototype. I can't wait to see how far programmers who are actually specialized in medical devices can take this feature.

The only thing left to engineer is the infrared sensors, making things visible to the naked eye without the help of the glasses. This step is the most difficult, and I'm struggling to figure it out, but I know I'm close.

At work, officially developing such a project would mean endless reviews, risk assessments, and probably having to share credit. Not to mention that I'm working in the wrong department for this kind of thing.

Here, I can push the boundaries without interference or the risk of someone claiming it wasn't my idea or altering it beyond recognition. This is my baby, the project of a lifetime.

The downside, of course, is that if Elysium finds out I'm developing this using their resources, even indirectly, it could mean serious trouble.

And in that case, the stolen neon tetras would be the last thing to worry about.

I could lose my job, or worse, they could take legal action if they think I've stolen company secrets, even though I've only used open-source tools and my own ideas and abilities. However, the smart home devices I'm manipulating for my project are definitely their property.

That's why it's crucial no one knows until it's ready to be pitched, complete and undeniable in its potential. No company would be dumb enough to question such an innovation if it were delivered on a gold platter.

"How about we make this a little more fun," I muse, opening the AR interface and adjusting settings with a swipe of my hand.

The tank's filtration system responds accordingly, creating a gentle current that mimics a natural habitat for the tetras. As I watch the tiny fish begin to explore their new home, a wave of satisfaction washes over me. This is what technology should be about— enhancing life, not just for humans but for all forms of life.