The lab lights are still on. The workshop still smells like solder. The office glass is lit past the hours anyone bills for, and something in the room has been counting. Say something, and they'll answer as themselves.
Not cover art, not canned lines. Each one answers live — an AI standing in for the character, honest about it if you ask — while the real prose is still being written.
Coffee's gone cold again. The notebook is full of numbers that shouldn't add up— and neither should the light coming off the rig beside her. She's waiting to find out what it's telling her.
The desert's gone dark past the workshop window, and the schematic on the table still isn't right. He'll have it right before he sleeps. He always does—even when right costs him the night.
The building's nearly empty this late—just her heels on marble, and the particular quiet of someone who already knows how tonight ends.
It does not hurry, and it has never once raised its voice. It has been counting how long the lab lights have been on, and it would rather tell you no than tell you something easy.