I wake to a gentle chime and the soft glow of a notification hovering in my field of vision. Good morning, Kael! chirps the System in its ever-cheerful font. It is 7:00 A.M. The weather today is mild, 22°C. The text scrolls across my bleary view like a news ticker for my life. It's so polite and upbeat that I almost feel guilty for wanting to hit the snooze button.
Almost.
"Five more minutes," I mumble, rolling over and pulling the blanket up. The System hears me—of course it does. A subtle ding sounds in my ear. Reminder: You have exceeded your 3 allotted snoozes this week. The message is accompanied by a gentle, sympathetic tone, as if to cushion the blow of its bureaucratic refusal. Additional snooze requests require supervisor approval.
I crack open one eye. "Seriously?" I mutter. There's no response beyond the persistent soft glow of wakefulness prompts drifting before me. I sigh. Nice try, Kael, I think to myself. The System always has the upper hand, even in bed.
Resigning to reality, I sit up and stretch. As I do, the smart curtains whisk open automatically, letting in just enough morning light to get my brain in gear.
My feet hit the floor and I shuffle toward the bathroom to get ready.
By the time I'm dressed, I've been gently herded through half my morning routine. The outfit was, of course, suggested by the System. As I opened my wardrobe, a highlighted outline appeared over a clean navy shirt and gray slacks.
Today's reasoning? Schedule: Team Presentation at 9:00. Attire suggestion: business casual; navy conveys trustworthiness. I chuckle at that—who knew our all-powerful AI overlord had opinions on fashion? Still, I find myself nodding along. Navy it is. To be fair, the System probably has a point; it usually does.
In the kitchen, my fridge displays a photo of overnight oats topped with ten blueberries—the System's idea of a perfect breakfast. I follow the suggestion, because honestly, my fridge isn't offering anything else.
They taste... fine. Bland, if I'm being honest. I sprinkle a little cinnamon on top as a token rebellion. The System doesn't object—cinnamon must be on its approved list.
As I eat, a calm voice murmurs from the kitchen speaker, reading off my morning briefing. It's the news, curated to my preferences (or what the System thinks my preferences should be):
Daily Brief: Global productivity is up again, citizen satisfaction at record highs, and nothing at all to report locally—another smooth day.
I half-listen, scooping up oats. It's all so reassuringly mundane. The world runs like a well-oiled machine; crisis and surprise have apparently taken early retirement. Comforting, sure—but a little dull.
I shake off the thought as the briefing ends with a peppy, "Have a productive day, Kael!" courtesy of the System's pleasant female voice. I swear it uses the exact same intonation as the voice on my autocab's navigation. Perhaps all cheerful AIs go to the same finishing school.
A ping in my visual overlay catches my attention. Transit Alert: it's time to head out if I want to reach the office by my usual 8:30 arrival. Always punctual, that little reminder. I take the hint and rinse out my bowl. The System likely scheduled that, too, calculating the most water-efficient load. It's hard to feel too annoyed; it does make life easier, in its quietly relentless way.
Grabbing my bag (packed last night per the System's checklist), I head out the door. The lock clicks and beeps behind me automatically—security courtesy of the building AI.
Outside, the air is crisp and exactly as mild as the System promised. I take a deep breath and join the stream of commuters. It strikes me how calm everything is—almost choreographed. People walk in orderly lines, eyes forward but distant, likely reading their AR prompts as they go. Traffic hums along, self-driving cars synchronizing with each other so perfectly that the concept of a traffic jam feels like ancient history. It's rush hour, and yet it all runs like a well-rehearsed dance.
My autocab is already waiting at the curb, summoned by the System to align perfectly with my departure. The car door slides open as I approach. "Good morning, Kael," chirps the vehicle in that same sing-song tone as the kitchen speaker. "Destination: WorkHub 12. Estimated arrival: 8:17 A.M."
I watch the city through the window. Everything moves in quiet harmony—every car, every pedestrian, all orchestrated by the System's invisible hand.
Soon, the autocab pulls up to my building. "You have arrived," the car announces needlessly as the doors unlock. The fare is handled automatically—deducted from my account the second I step out. I straighten my navy shirt (trustworthy, huh?) and make my way through the lobby.
At the entrance, a quick facial scan verifies my ID and the doors glide open to let me in.
I work at Centrico. Officially I'm a logistics coordinator, but in reality the System makes all the decisions—I rubber-stamp them. It's the token "human touch" in an otherwise automated process.
My coworker Mira greets me with a grin. We joke about another "thrilling" day at work as we share an eye-roll and get to it.
The morning ticks by uneventfully. I attend a couple of virtual meetings, send some routine emails, and generally just monitor things while the System does the heavy lifting.
By noon, the System has already ordered my lunch (grilled chicken salad, again). Efficient, yes. Exciting, no.
I briefly consider sneaking out for a burger instead, but the System nudges me back toward the cafeteria. I sigh and give in.
Back at my desk, the post-lunch slump hits hard, but I push through the drowsiness and focus on the next stack of routine tasks.
Boredom is just starting to numb my brain as I review yet another automatically generated report. That's when it happens.
My screen blinks. Once, twice. The text on the order list freezes, then garbles. For a split second, I think I see... static? That can't be right. It looks like static—something I've never seen on these screens. I straighten up, suddenly alert. A new line of text appears at the top of my display in harsh red letters:
SYSTEM ERROR.
Two words. That's all I catch before the entire screen goes blank, then flashes back to life. The order list is back as if nothing happened. My heart does a weird little double thump.
I lift my hands off the keyboard, unsure what to do. Did I just see that?
I blink hard, once, twice, and glance around. A few nearby coworkers are rubbing their temples or tapping at their AR glasses. I'm not the only one, then. Across the aisle, Mira has pulled off her headset, looking perplexed. Our eyes meet in bewilderment.
"You saw that?" I ask quietly.
She nods slowly. "The error message?"
"Yeah. What was—"
Before I can finish, our supervisor's voice comes over the intercom, calm and measured: "Attention, team. Please be aware we are experiencing a minor technical glitch. The System is handling it. No cause for concern. Please remain on task."
A collective held breath sweeps the office. The System just glitched—those words feel wrong together. After a stunned pause, people begin to turn back to their screens, pretending nothing happened.
I stare at my screen. The cursor blinks at me innocently from the reopened order list. Everything's normal again. Maybe the System fixed it in a millisecond. Maybe it was just some weird visual bug. Maybe... maybe I imagined the whole thing?
But I know I didn't. My pulse is still racing.
I take a deep breath and click "Confirm" on the restock order, half expecting my computer to explode. It doesn't. Across the office, chairs creak and keyboards clack as everyone eases back into their routine. The hum of business-as-usual resumes, albeit shakier than before.
Still, I can't shake the feeling. It's like hearing an infallible guru admit, just for a second, that he doesn't have all the answers. Unsettling, to say the least.
At 5:00 P.M. on the dot, I log out and prepare to head home, following the usual script. But today, my mind isn't entirely on autopilot. That flicker of red text—System Error—keeps looping in my memory.
As I step outside in the early evening, the city is as orderly as ever—traffic flowing, lights changing, my autocab already waiting at the curb. Everything seems normal.
Except, something has changed. However minor that glitch was, I glimpsed behind the curtain for a split second. The System isn't supposed to have curtains at all.
I slide into the autocab and it begins the journey back to my apartment, merging seamlessly into the stream of AI-guided vehicles. I force myself to exhale and let my shoulders relax. Maybe I'm making a big deal out of nothing. A tiny hiccup in a massive network—surely that can happen, right? No system is perfect, not even the System.
I almost convince myself it's fine. But as the car whispers through the glowing grid of evening traffic, I catch myself chewing my lip—a habit I thought I'd kicked.
I realize I know almost nothing about what the System actually does when "handling" an issue. It just... works. Day in, day out, it keeps the world humming. Until it doesn't.
I stare out the window at the sunset, watching the skyscrapers glow gold and pink. Everything looks serene, perfectly in order. Yet here I am, with a nagging knot in my stomach over a two-second glitch. Maybe I'm overreacting, but I can't help it.
For the first time in years, I feel a twinge of uncertainty about tomorrow—a tiny crack in the absolute confidence I once had in my perfectly scripted life. Maybe the glitch was nothing... probably is nothing.
But as I ride home through the meticulously ordered city, I wonder what else might happen if I keep my eyes open. And for once, the thought of not knowing what comes next is kind of exciting.