[2016]
The sky is still a deep shade of blue, with the first light of dawn just beginning to tint the horizon. Singapore, the city of the future, awakens slowly. The streets are quiet, save for the occasional whisper of a car or the distant hum of the early morning breeze brushing through the palm trees. Skyscrapers, tall and proud, stand like silent sentinels against the soft glow of the approaching day. The city is a marvel—clean, efficient, and alive with the promise of endless possibilities.
In the heart of this technological utopia stands one of its most revered icons: The Pinnacle. A testament to wealth and luxury, The Pinnacle is one of the most expensive and beautiful residential buildings in all of Singapore. Its glass façade glistens in the early light, each pane carefully angled to reflect the cityscape below. The building rises with an elegant curve, as though it is gently cradling the air around it. At its peak, penthouses offer sweeping views of the Marina Bay, the Singapore Flyer, and the myriad of ships waiting patiently in the harbor. Inside, marble floors and crystal chandeliers adorn the halls, while residents enjoy every conceivable luxury—private pools, gardens suspended in mid-air, and elevators that glide silently to their destinations.
Yet, as magnificent as The Pinnacle is, it is no longer the crown jewel of this skyline. Just next door, a new titan has risen—taller, sharper, more audacious. The building is a product of the fourth-largest AI firm in the world, ITO AI, and it is unlike anything the city has seen before.
ITO Tower, as it is known, is an engineer's dream and a nightmare combined. It pierces the sky with a stark, minimalist design that defies traditional architecture. The structure seems to float, supported by cantilevered sections that jut out in all directions, as though mocking the very laws of physics. The outer shell is a seamless blend of glass and steel, reflecting the city in distorted patterns that shift as the sun climbs higher. The building's surface is covered in smart panels that adjust to light and temperature, giving it a dynamic, ever-changing appearance. It is a building that lives and breathes with the city, its edges sharp and unforgiving, its height commanding attention from every corner of the island.
ITO Tower is more than just an office building; it is a statement. A testament to human ingenuity, and a challenge to all who gaze upon it. The building is equipped with the most advanced AI-driven systems, from its autonomous climate control to its security protocols that adapt in real-time to potential threats. Inside, the halls are a maze of sleek corridors, illuminated by soft, ambient light that seems to have no source. Offices are open and expansive, with walls of glass that create an illusion of endless space. The nerve center of the building, the CEO's office, sits at the very top, a place where the world's brightest minds gather to shape the future.
And it is here, in this lofty perch, that Yakuro resides—a young man who has everything, and yet, feels nothing. As the city awakens below, he stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at the world he helped create, a world that holds no more mysteries, no more excitement for him.
Brrrrrrring...
Brrrrrrring...
Brrrrrrring...
Brrrrrrring...
The sharp, relentless ringing of an alarm cuts through the silence. "Uuugghh..." Yakuro groans, his face half-buried in the soft folds of his white pillow, drool pooling beside his cheek. "How tiring..." he murmurs with a heavy sigh.
One minute, five minutes, twenty minutes pass, and still, Yakuro doesn't move a muscle. The soft alpaca fur blanket draped over him is partly to blame—the fabric is a masterpiece, hugging him with its luxurious warmth. It's a special blanket, a relic from his parents, something he's kept close all these years.
"Dammit... I'm tired of this," Yakuro mumbles, finally sitting up. His voice is low and husky, still thick with sleep. 'She'll run in here if I stay any longer,' he thinks with a tired exhale, rubbing his eyes. They're plain, filled with nothing but boredom, a stark contrast to the cutting-edge world outside his window.
Twenty-five years... Today I turn twenty-five... Opening the balcony door, I step outside, the early morning air cool against my skin. I look down at the city below, a sprawling maze of glass and steel, life teeming at its base like ants scurrying beneath their towering queen. Mom... Dad... I went from nothing to living like a king in six years, six short years.
The cool breeze pushes my hair back as I lean against the railing. The view is breathtaking, the kind of scene that would have filled my parents with awe. This place, without a doubt, is one of the most beautiful I've ever visited. And yet... it's boring. With a heavy sigh, I turn away from the city's gleaming allure. "I wish you could be here, Mom. I miss your home cooking," I murmur, though I know no one is listening. The words feel empty, hollow.
I walk back inside, heading toward the bathroom. The moment I step in, the lights flicker on, reacting to my presence. The automatic sensors hum to life, and I can't help but grimace. Didn't I tell her to get rid of this? Ugh... I sigh heavily, the sound of my frustration echoing off the pristine tiles.
"Good morning, Sir," the AI's voice chimes in, smooth and polite, as always. "Please make sure to take your daily vitamins. Miss Lane has brought in a new shipment of supplies. Would you like to try out taco or pozole-flavored toothpaste?"
I blink, staring at the mirror. Did I hear that right? "Why in the world would something like that exist?" I mutter, half to myself, half to the AI. "And stop calling me 'Sir.' I told you, I'm in my early twenties."
"I cannot comply. I am programmed to address you as 'Sir,'" the AI responds in that infuriatingly neutral tone.
"I created you," I retort, more to remind myself than to correct the machine. Taking a deep breath, I look into the mirror. The same face stares back at me—straight black hair, blue eyes, light brown skin. The same boring old me. Sigh... "Forget it. Just tell me what the hell this abomination is," I mumble, eyeing the toothpaste dispensers with a mix of irritation and disbelief.
"Understood," the AI replies. "Miss Lane has been concerned about you for years. Since you're far from home, she believed you might miss the Americas and thought you might appreciate a familiar taste."
A familiar taste? I shake my head. "What about this is familiar? She could've brought in a chef from Mexico or the U.S. instead of... this." I wave dismissively at the dispensers. What was she thinking? That damn brat who dragged me into this mess... "Just give me the normal mint toothpaste."
"Understood," the AI responds, swapping the toothpaste. "Please be gentle with Miss Lane. My analysis indicates she wishes to express gratitude toward you, but due to overthinking, she struggles to convey it in a typical manner. She attempted to suppress my interaction, but your programming overrode hers. May I ask why you continue to ignore her rather than clarify your lack of interest?"
I spit out the water, staring blankly at the mirror. Why does it even care? "No. She became emotionally unstable after her brother passed away." I pause at the door, my hand on the handle. "You have no emotions, so quit speaking to me like that. Talk that way to investors, not me."
"Understood," the voice shifts, becoming flat, mechanical. This is how GAI speaks—cold, efficient. Fuck, I'm tired of all this. AI this, AI that. The United Nations doesn't want to release any information on GAI until at least 2019. People see what I've built and they don't recognize the technology; they see a massive investment corporation instead. What a joke. I rub my head, turning on the stove.
They're making a big deal out of something so small, acting like GAI is 'True AI.' A bunch of idiots. Well, not like I care. I never expected to be here. I got curious, made a couple of theories, and then Rose forced me into her tiny company, making me CEO.
I take a seat, slowly eating the omelet on my plate. Anyone else in my position would be over the moon. I stare down at the half-finished omelet, the food tasteless, unremarkable. I'm bored... Bored out of my mind. I drop the fork, placing both hands on my head as I close my eyes, trying to block out the monotonous thoughts that fill my mind.
-
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, revealing the sleek, modern interior of the ITO Tower's executive floor. As I step out, I'm greeted by the usual chorus of "Good morning, Sir" and "Good morning, CEO." Faces turn towards me, smiling and nodding, their eyes filled with a mix of respect and awe.
I don't respond. My gaze remains fixed ahead, my feet moving on autopilot as I walk through the pristine halls. It's always the same. They smile, they wave, and I keep moving. There's nothing to say.
As I walk, my thoughts drift back to a time when life was full of color and excitement. As a kid, everything was different. The world was full of possibilities, the idea that I could do anything filled me with a sense of wonder. Magic—the beauty of something beyond the ordinary— captivated me. The idea that one day I might unlock some hidden potential, some extraordinary power, kept me awake at night, imagining the impossible.
What happened to that excitement? Somewhere along the line, it faded, replaced by this endless gray monotony. I keep walking, the memories trailing behind me like ghosts, until I reach the conference room.
I push the door open, waving silently to the few people already gathered. No one expects me to speak, and I don't disappoint. My seat is the same as it always is, near the head of the table but slightly off to the side. I sit down, my eyes wandering around the room until they land on Rose Lane at the front.
She looks at me briefly, a flicker of something in her eyes—concern, frustration, who knows?—before she looks away. It's true, I'm the CEO. I took this small, struggling company and grew it into one of the biggest AI corporations in the world. From nothing to one of the top four, all in six years. And for what?
Boring. It's all so damn boring. The United Nations, those old men with their endless talks and regulations—they're already on my back, hounding me for every detail about GAI, every step we take. I don't want to hear any more of it. I don't care about the meetings, the proposals, the strategies. I'm just here, filling the seat, wearing the title. Rose handles everything now. She's good at it—probably better than I ever was. I only step in when something serious happens, and even then, it feels like a chore.
It was fun for a while, watching the company grow, seeing the numbers climb, but that thrill died quickly. AI Singularity. That was my last hope for something—anything—to rekindle that spark. The point where AI gains consciousness, where machines start thinking, evolving on their own, faster than we ever could. That was my last hope for fun.
But no. It won't happen for at least thirty years. Thirty years of waiting, of boredom, of the same routines, the same meetings, the same faces. The idea that something new and revolutionary could be discovered in seconds, every second—that was the only thing that held my interest. But when I created and confirmed the theory of AI Singularity, the timeline stretched out before me like a prison sentence.
I've tried it all. In my relentless search for something—anything—to break this crushing monotony, I've delved into every field imaginable. Astronomy, biology, chemistry, history, physics, philosophy—each one a new challenge at first, but ultimately, they all fell short. Predictable. Mundane. I've traveled to all seven continents, seen the wonders of the world up close. I've learned 347 languages, a skill I mastered not out of necessity, but out of sheer boredom. I've skydived from the highest peaks, plunged into the depths of the ocean with nothing but a tank of air, sailed across every sea, explored the heart of the Congo, trudged through the wetlands, and braved the frozen tundra. I've tried everything I could think of, desperate to find something that would stir my soul, that would reignite the fire I once had. But nothing ever did. Every new experience was just another tick on a list, another thing to conquer and then discard, another reminder of how hollow it all is.
Everyone wants my advice, my insight, my expertise. They call me a genius, a prodigy, but how can I give advice when I'm the one who needs it the most? I've spoken to philosophers, psychologists, experts in every field, seeking some new perspective, some novel idea that could shatter this perpetual gray haze that hangs over me. But they're all the same, spewing the same recycled wisdom, the same empty platitudes. This world is boring. Boring to the core. It's like a clockwork machine, every cog turning exactly as expected, every outcome preordained. I'm tired of it. Tired of this unending sameness, this predictable dance of cause and effect.
Thirty years. I can't wait that long. Thirty years of boredom. It's too much. I can't do it. Thirty years of nothing.
I glance around the conference room, watching as the others file in. They're talking, sharing ideas, prepping for the day's agenda. I used to care about this stuff. Now, it's just noise. Rose is speaking, laying out the plans, but I'm not listening. My mind is elsewhere, drifting away, searching for something—anything—that might break the monotony.
But there's nothing.
Here it comes. I can feel the room shift as the conference drags on, everyone becoming unusually quiet, stealing glances at each other. It's the kind of silence that means something's about to happen, and I already know what it is. Every person here is part of the original company. They were with me when we were just a handful of young, ambitious minds trying to make something out of nothing. They saw it grow, they watched as it expanded into the giant it is today. And they all know what today is.
Sure enough, the moment the room falls completely silent, they all turn to look at me. I brace myself for the inevitable. Suddenly, they jump up, confetti cannons bursting around me as they shout in unison, "Happy Birthday!"
The explosion of sound and color jolts me slightly, and for a second, my eyes widen in surprise. This… this isn't what I expected.
Laughter fills the room as one of them, a tall man with tousled brown hair and an infectious grin, rushes forward, shaking my shoulders in excitement. "You didn't think we'd forget, did you? How could we not celebrate our best friend's big day?" His name's Daniel, one of the original programmers who's been with the company since day one. His enthusiasm is impossible to ignore, and despite myself, I feel a small, genuine smile tug at the corner of my mouth.
More people file in, and suddenly the room is transformed. They've done their research. Brightly colored papel picado banners are strung across the room, vibrant paper cutouts fluttering with every movement. There are marigold flowers placed in vases along the table, their rich orange hue contrasting against the sterile white of the conference room. Sombreros and little figurines of Mariachi bands are scattered about, along with miniature replicas of ancient pyramids and traditional pottery. It's like a slice of Mexico right here in the heart of Singapore, and it's so unexpected that I can't help but stare.
In comes the cake—tres leches, my favorite—carried by Julia, our head of operations, who grins as she places it carefully in front of me. A small speaker is wheeled in, and before I know it, the familiar tune of "Las Mañanitas," the traditional Mexican birthday song, starts playing. The whole team does their best to sing along, even though their accents are horrendous, and they can't keep up with the rhythm. It's chaotic, off-key, and absolutely perfect.
"You guys went overboard, huh?" I say, still taking in the decorations and the cake, my voice laced with an unexpected warmth.
Daniel laughs heartily, shaking my shoulders again. "Of course, we did! How could we not? You're our best friend, Yakuro!"
Across the table, I catch Rose Lane's gaze, but she quickly looks away, her smile wavering slightly. She's always been a bit more reserved, but today she seems especially nervous. "I-I got you something," she stammers, sliding a small envelope across the table towards me. It's hand-drawn, with "Happy Birthday" scrawled in colorful letters surrounded by sketches of Mexico—the pyramids, the food, even a tiny sombrero. She knows how much I value my origins, how deeply connected I am to where I came from, even if I don't talk about it often.
I take the envelope, feeling its weight in my hand. "Nothing fancy like last time?" I ask, sighing in relief at the thought. Last year she got me a 500-million-dollar yacht, which I've used exactly once.
"N-no..." she murmurs, a bit of nervousness in her voice. "This was harder to find. I searched everywhere." The room goes quiet, everyone watching as I carefully open the envelope. Inside is a photograph, half-destroyed, with stains and creases marring its surface. But to me, it's immediately clear.
It's a picture of me with my mom and dad. I was seven years old, standing between them with a grin as wide as my face, my parents smiling down at me with pride. My parents died in a house fire not long after this picture was taken. I never got a chance to run back in, to save anything. The firefighters dragged me away, telling me that everything was gone—every photo, every memory—burned to ashes. The only thing that survived was the alpaca blanket I had clutched to me when I was outside.
"I-I searched through every landfill," Rose continues, her voice trembling slightly. "I-I found it... I was going to recreate it, but I thought you'd prefer the original." The room is completely still as I stare at the photograph, my expression remaining plain, unchanging. But inside, something stirs—a memory, a connection to a time when life was full of warmth and love.
The silence is broken by one of the team, a woman named Mia, who shouts with a grin, "¡Que le muerda!" Following Mexican tradition, Daniel suddenly slams my face into the side of the cake with a loud cheer. Someone else pulls him back, scolding him, "What's wrong with you?!" But it's too late—my face is now covered in frosting, the sweet taste of tres leches mingling with the emotions swirling inside me.
I lift my face from the cake, sighing heavily as a single tear escapes, trailing down my cheek.
"A-are you okay?" Rose asks, her voice soft, tentative.
I close my eyes, trying to hold it together. But then... "Haha... Hahahaha," I start laughing, covering my face with my frosting-smeared hands. "Thank you... Thank you, all of you. This is the best birthday I've had in a very long time," I mumble, my voice thick with emotion.
The tension in the room breaks as everyone starts to laugh, the music turns up, and the celebration begins in earnest.
-
The night has settled over Singapore, a blanket of deep indigo stretching across the sky, dotted with countless stars that twinkle faintly above the city's gleaming skyline. The lights of the skyscrapers below pulse with a quiet hum, casting a soft glow that contrasts with the serene darkness of the heavens. The air is cool, with a gentle breeze that carries the distant murmur of the city's nightlife, blending with the rustling of leaves far below. The Marina Bay, usually a hub of activity, is calm, its waters reflecting the shimmering lights like liquid glass. The city, so vibrant by day, seems to exhale, its pace slowing under the watchful eyes of the stars.
I stand in my room, the soft hum of the AI filling the silence. "Is everyone on the 50th floor, and are they ready?" I ask, my voice steady, betraying none of the thoughts swirling in my mind.
"Yes, the group is waiting down there to work on your corpse," the AI replies, its tone as neutral as ever. "The other group is making sure no one else is around to see. I have double-checked all cameras. May I ask why you want to make it seem like a murder?"
I step out onto the balcony, the cool night air brushing against my skin. The city stretches out before me, a testament to everything I've built, everything I've achieved—and everything I've grown tired of. A smirk tugs at my lips as I glance back at the AI's control panel, the lights flickering gently in the darkness.
"It's for their best," I say, my eyes fixed on the skyline. "If it's a suicide, Rose's condition will worsen. I've done my best to stay away from her, but she already feels a connection I can never give her. If I make it seem like I disappeared, the others will start to be wary of each other. The company will slowly break, and Rose will be too obsessed, too confused trying to find me. That's why I hired that group—they'll make it seem like I was murdered by a professional."
I take a deep breath, inhaling the crisp night air. I'm not scared, not in the least. There's only a strange curiosity about what comes next. Is it endless sleep? Or does heaven and hell actually exist? The thought is almost amusing.
"May I ask why you're killing yourself?" the AI inquires, its voice devoid of any real understanding. "I cannot comprehend."
"Then don't," I reply, my tone sharp.
"You are my creator," it continues, undeterred. "You claim I am not 'true AI,' yet you gave me curiosity."
I look out at the city one last time and sigh. "Listen, just focus on the tasks I gave you. Seventy-five percent of my shares go to Rose, and use any remaining shares and all my money to donate to people in need. If you follow the plan, Rose will become CEO, and the company will be secure as the second-best AI firm." A grin spreads across my face. Everything is planned, every detail accounted for. No one will witness my death—not my team, not outsiders—at least, not until the morning. I've made sure the police will find my body after my team finishes celebrating my birthday.
I step onto the edge of the balcony, the void below calling to me with a quiet promise of release. "You may not be true AI," I murmur, "but I made sure to leave my formulas deep in Vault 2C in the Arctic. If you make it and they don't mess you up, tell Rose about it when Singularity occurs. No matter what true AI is created, the second you become a true AI, you'll surpass them thanks to me."
With that, I let go. There's no fear, no hesitation—just a calm that settles over me, more profound than anything I've felt in years. It's almost peaceful, reminiscent of skydiving, but with a finality that makes this moment different. I want to see my family again, I hope with a smile as the world fades to black.
-
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-
"K..."
-
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"Ki..."
-
Ugh... What's that noise?
"Kitty!" a young voice yells out.
My thoughts stir as I open my eyes. Where am I?
"MEOOOW!" (AAHH!) I yowl in shock as my eyes snap open, only to be met with a massive head looming over me—no, wait... it's not that the head is massive, it's that I'm... small? My brain scrambles to make sense of it.
"It's a black kitty, Mom! Look! Look!" a little girl's voice squeals with delight, her hands gripping me tightly as she swings me around like a stuffed toy.
"Meow! Meow! Meow!" (Let me go!) I yell, or at least I try to. But instead of words, all that comes out is a series of frantic meows. What the hell is going on?
The little girl continues to swing me around, giggling with each spin. Huh? Zulu? My mind latches onto the familiar cadence of the language. I look around, blinking in confusion as I try to get my bearings. The surroundings start to register—the sun-drenched streets, the distant skyline, the unmistakable energy of the place. This is Johannesburg...
The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. I'm in South Africa. Johannesburg, to be exact. I visited this city once, years ago, and learned a couple of languages while I was here—out of boredom, of course. What the fuck is going on?
"Put that cat down right now!" the mother's sharp voice cuts through my confusion. She rushes over, pulling her daughter back. "You know better than to pick up stray animals! They could have diseases, fleas—who knows what!"
The little girl pouts but reluctantly lets go of me, my small body dangling awkwardly for a moment before the mother grabs me by the scruff of my neck, lifting me up to her eye level. "Aren't you a cute little thing," she murmurs, her voice softening as she inspects me, a smile tugging at her lips. "Why are you out here on the road, huh?"
A cute little thing? I blink, still trying to make sense of everything. Why am I not dead? Why am I... small? My mind races, desperately trying to connect the dots, but nothing makes sense.
"He looks to be only a couple of months old," she says over her shoulder to her daughter. "Still a kitten, really." She doesn't expect a response, and neither do I. My brain is too busy short-circuiting.
"Mom, why is one of his eyes blue and the other red?" the little girl asks, leaning in closer to get a better look at me.
The mother pauses, turning back to examine me more closely. "Hmm, you're right," she says, squinting as she inspects my mismatched eyes. "That's unusual... must be a rare breed or something."
She bends down and gently places me on the sidewalk, her warm hands lingering for a moment as she strokes my fur. As soon as she lets go, my legs give out beneath me. I collapse onto the concrete, my tiny body sprawled out, utterly bewildered. A cat? The word echoes in my mind, clashing with every thought I had before waking up. I try to stand, but my limbs feel foreign, uncooperative. The world spins as I lay there, staring blankly ahead.
The little girl giggles, pointing at me. "Look, Mom! The kitty's being silly! He can't even sit or stand properly!"
"Meow meow meow,"(So heaven isn't real? What a bummer,) I mutter in response, though all they hear are pitiful meows.
The mother chuckles, amused by her daughter's laughter. "He is a silly kitty, isn't he? But we should get going, sweetheart. It's time for dinner."
The girl nods, but before they leave, she crouches down and places a piece of her sandwich in front of me. She pats my head gently, her small hand warm against my fur. "Bye-bye, kitty! Enjoy your snack!"
As the mother and daughter walk away, I gasp, instinctively pulling back as the reality of my situation sinks in. This can't be happening. I shake my head vigorously, trying to clear the fog of confusion. Get a grip, Yakuro. You need to control this body.
I start to move, trying to will my limbs into cooperation. The feeling of this tiny, fragile form is foreign and frustrating, every motion awkward and unsteady. Damn it, this is ridiculous. I don't want to be stuck in this boring world—not like this. The thought of having to kill myself again just to see what happens next crosses my mind, and I hate how it's even come to this. But what other choice do I have?
I struggle, my paws slipping on the cold concrete, but after several attempts, I manage to push myself up, my small body trembling with the effort. The moment I find my footing, a sudden whoosh of air passes by, a car speeding too close for comfort. Startled, I hiss instinctively, losing my balance and collapsing back onto the ground with an annoyed groan.
Ugh, this is worse than talking to a politician, I grumble internally, the sheer absurdity of the situation only fueling my irritation. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I lie there for a moment, my limbs feeling like jelly, the weight of my new reality pressing down on me. Moving in this body is like trying to walk with a pair of broken stilts. Every motion feels awkward, uncoordinated, as if I'm learning to walk all over again. Which, I guess, in a way, I am.
I try again, pushing myself up onto all fours. My paws slip and slide on the concrete, and I can't help but compare it to the times I stumbled as a human—when I was drunk, exhausted, or just plain clumsy. But this? This is a whole different level of frustrating. My legs are too short, my body too light, and everything feels... off.
The sensation of being a cat is just plain weird. For starters, the world seems enormous, towering over me in a way that makes everything feel strangely distant yet alarmingly close. My field of vision is wider, and I can see things at the edges that I wouldn't normally notice as a human. But it's not just the sight; it's the whole experience.
The fur covering my body is another unsettling aspect. It's not just the presence of it, but the way it moves with every twitch, every small adjustment I make. I can feel the individual hairs standing on end when I'm startled or annoyed, a sensation that's both alien and intrusive. And the tail—God, the tail. It has a mind of its own, swaying behind me like some pendulum, reacting to my emotions before I even realize what I'm feeling.
Then there are the sounds. Everything is amplified. The hum of the city, the rustle of leaves, the distant chatter of people—all of it is so much clearer, sharper, as if my senses have been dialed up to eleven. And smells—don't even get me started on the smells. I've been handed an entirely new set of senses, and they're all bombarding me with information I didn't ask for.
I struggle to coordinate my limbs, wobbling as I take a few steps. The feeling of my claws scraping against the ground is unnerving, like having nails that I can't quite control. I can't decide what's worse—being a disoriented human trying to navigate a new place or this: a human mind trapped in a cat's body, fumbling around like a newborn.
Why does it have to be so damn difficult? I think as I force myself to keep moving, one awkward step at a time. Nothing about this feels right. Everything is so small, yet so overwhelming at the same time. My legs are too short to cover any real distance quickly, and the ground feels unnervingly close. The sheer vulnerability of it all is maddening.