Chapter 6 - Ignorance is Bliss
Jeff Chen
Jeff sat across the gleaming oak desk while his lawyer, Gus Mastro, flipped through his employment contract with a fountain pen in hand. The silence was thick until Gus finally looked up.
“I’ll be straight with you, Jeff. There’s not much here you’re going to like.”
Jeff leaned forward. “Go on.”
“All of your unvested stock? Gone. Bonus? Gone. And because you quit, not fired, there’s no protection. No grounds to argue constructive dismissal or anything like that.”
Jeff’s jaw tightened. He wanted to argue—wanted to point out how he’d been shoved aside, humiliated—but the words caught in his throat. Gus wasn’t finished. He adjusted his glasses, tapping the contract with the end of his pen. “Now, about the non-compete. It’s three years. Sounds harsh, I know, but listen—California courts rarely enforce these. You’ve got strong legal standing if it ever came to a fight. Frankly, I’d argue this clause is dead on arrival.”
Jeff rubbed his temple. “Three years of… nothing? I can’t just sit on the sidelines.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Gus pressed, leaning forward. “You don’t have to. If you wanted to join another company tomorrow, I could defend you. The law’s on your side.”
Jeff let out a short laugh, sharp and humorless. That would work for Gus, racking up legal fees, but for him? “The law doesn’t matter, not with Ewen,” Jef said. “He doesn’t fight in courtrooms—he fights in boardrooms, in back channels. You think some other CEO wants to pick an unnecessary fight with him just to bring me on? They’ll take one look at that clause and decide I’m not worth the trouble.”
Gus opened his mouth, then shut it again.
Jeff sat back in his chair, the weight of it settling on him. “Might as well be ironclad. I’m radioactive for three years.”
Ewen was an egomaniac, sure, but he was also a man of his word. That was why people tolerated his eccentricities: if he said something, he meant it—and he expected the same from everyone else. Loyalty mattered to him. So did betrayal. At AI4Evre1, signing your name wasn’t just a formality; it was a pledge. Break it, and Ewen would break you.
With billions at his disposal, Jeff’s impressive net worth suddenly felt like a short stack at a poker table. All Ewen had to do was lean, and Jeff could be busted.
He left the office with nothing resolved, his mind buzzing. He’d already done the math with his accountant—an inventory of assets and liabilities. At his current burn rate, he had maybe nine months before the cash reserves dried up. Most of his wealth was locked up in the $2.5 million house he’d barely moved into. Selling now would give him breathing room, sure, but at a loss.
The word that gnawed at him was exile. He felt exiled from the land of plenty, except he’d been the one to cast himself out. Demotion had bruised his ego. Quitting had shattered it. And now that same ego kept him from doing the one thing that might save him—picking up the phone and calling Ewen, begging to come back.
When Jeff pulled into the driveway, the house loomed above him like a monument to hubris. Inside, the air was too still. He drifted into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Yamazaki 18—his best Japanese whiskey—and poured a tall glass.
His phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Camila.
Hey Jeff, I think it’s better if we don’t see each other anymore. You’ve been so stressed, and I don’t want to add to it. I need someone who knows where they’re going. I hope you understand. Best of luck.
Jeff stared at it, a bitter laugh catching in his throat. No doubt she’d already heard about his job. Word traveled fast in Silicon Valley. At least that solved one problem: he didn’t have to bankroll her spending habits anymore. That would stretch his runway by another month or two.
He tossed the phone aside, knocked back the whiskey, and refilled the glass. The burn seared down his throat, but it didn’t warm him.
No one was going to feel sorry for a millionaire, so he figured he’d feel sorry for himself.
A couple of weeks later, the house didn’t look like a millionaire lived there. Not anymore. Pizza boxes were stacked by the kitchen counter like a cardboard skyline, and half-empty glasses of whiskey and soda cluttered the coffee table. The shades stayed drawn most of the day, the air faintly sour with takeout and dust.
Jeff sat cross-legged on the couch, headset on, eyes locked on the massive screen dominating the living room. His newest splurge—the latest high-end console, wired into a surround-sound system—throbbed with gunfire and explosions. BattleZone XIII, the game everyone seemed to be playing, filled his nights.
He leaned into the controller, jaw clenched as his squad advanced on the enemy base. His fingers flew, dodging missiles, firing back with precision. For a moment, adrenaline surged through him, drowning out the silence of the empty house.
Then his screen flashed red. His avatar collapsed in a heap of digital armor.
“Bullshit!” Jeff shouted, slamming the controller down on the couch cushion. The vibration motors buzzed uselessly in protest.
He leaned back, grabbing his glass of whiskey and taking a long sip. The amber burned down his throat but didn’t dull the sting. He tossed the glass onto the table, where it clinked against two others he hadn’t bothered to clear away. Whiskey definitely didn’t help with his new gaming hobby, but he didn’t care.
Around him, the house felt cavernous. Lonely. The controller lay abandoned at his side, the game’s respawn timer ticking down. He’d never felt like more of a loser—in the game, in life.
He reached for his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Contacts filled the list, but who could he text? Most of his friends were in the industry, still chained to Ewen’s empire or one of the other startups battling for dominance. If he reached out, what would he even say? Hey, remember me? The guy who flamed out and quit in a huff?
He’d thought some of them were true friends, but not one had reached out since he left. Maybe they were drowning in deadlines. Or maybe, he realized bitterly, they weren’t his friends after all.
He scrolled further. A few family members. His sister. An uncle. He stopped there, thumb hovering, before setting the phone back down. He couldn’t bring himself to explain any of this. The shame was too raw.
Jeff had never thought of himself as someone who could spiral, never brushed up against the edges of depression. But now, sitting in his million-dollar home with no one to call and nothing to do, he understood how easily people slipped into dark thoughts. Purpose was gone. Connection was gone. What was left but the empty hum of a video game he couldn’t win and a drink that didn’t help?
He rubbed his hands over his face, then let them drop. His bank account was still flush, at least for now. But the number didn’t matter. Not tonight.
And then the strangest question crept into his head, unbidden. How much of his wealth would he give up for a genuine friend?
Not to buy one—he’d already tried to buy affection with Camila, and it had evaporated like smoke. No, this was different. Philosophical. He wanted to know what the right price was for someone who’d pick up the phone without needing anything in return. Someone who’d answer at midnight just because he couldn’t sleep. Someone who’d show up with takeout when he’d had a bad day, or pour a drink and listen without judgment.
A real friend, Jeff thought, was there for the high points too—the promotion, the big win, the little victories that didn’t mean much to anyone else. Someone who’d cheer with him, not because they had to, but because they wanted to. Someone who believed in him when he didn’t believe in himself, and who could also call him out when his ego got too big.
That was what he wanted. Not fans. Not colleagues who only cared while he was useful. Not a girlfriend who liked the lifestyle more than the man. Just one person who saw him, stripped of all the trappings, and stayed anyway.
He swirled the last finger of whiskey in his glass, staring into the amber liquid as if it might hold the answer. What was a good friend worth?
Cory Yates
Corey worked harder than ever, for one big reason. He wasn’t going to lose his girlfriend and his job. His ego couldn’t handle that, and since Janet was already gone, all his energy went into the job. The grind stretched on for another two months. He made friends at the firm—grabbed late-night noodles with associates, traded sarcastic texts during marathon case reviews—but a loneliness nudged at him all the same. He missed Janet in a way that work drinks and friendly banter couldn’t touch.
Omni tempted him every night, humming like a conscience he couldn’t shut off. Why couldn’t he use it for something personal? Wasn’t a therapist just another system of advice? What was the difference if his therapist was a computer? Janet had hated it, but she wasn’t here anymore. Maybe she wasn’t the one. She’d probably moved on anyway. Maybe he should too.
For a month he fought the urge, stubbornly resisting. But finally, the silence of his apartment wore him down. One night he gave in. Omni spun him a dating profile, optimized across the major apps, polished with clever prompts and the right balance of humor and ambition. Within a week, dates lined up neatly in his calendar like hearings on a docket.
When the night of the first date arrived, he stared at himself in the mirror as he adjusted his tie for the third time. He’d always had a love/hate relationship with first dates. The promise of possibility gave him butterflies, but the fear and insecurity made those butterflies agitated and clumsy leaving him with something bordering on nausea.
His date, Alison, looked great on paper. Attorney, early thirties, ambitious without sounding cutthroat, and—judging by her profile pictures—strikingly attractive. She liked hiking, Italian food, and claimed to have a soft spot for old courtroom dramas. It almost felt too perfect, the sort of compatibility algorithms promised but rarely delivered.
He’d been tempted, more than once, to open Omni and ask for pointers—what to say, how to carry himself, the subtle cues he might miss. But there wasn’t time, and he’d already taken its advice on the big decisions: the restaurant reservation, the suit he now wore. Omni had told him navy would complement his skin tone better than black, and Corey had to admit, it looked sharp. The reflection staring back at him looked polished, even confident. So why did he still feel like a teenager before prom, heart thudding too fast, stomach twisted tight?
He met Alison at a modern Italian place downtown, the kind with concrete floors and Edison bulbs strung like stars overhead. She was already at the restaurant when he arrived, seated at a table tucked in the corner. Damn. He should’ve left earlier. Hopefully that wouldn’t create a negative first impression. She stood as he approached, a warm smile on her face.
“Corey?”
“That’s me,” he said, returning her smile. “Sorry if I kept you waiting. Parking downtown is a blood sport.”
She laughed lightly. “I’ve lived here ten years. I know. I almost walked.”
They sat, menus propped between them, candles flickering just enough to soften the sharp lines of the concrete-and-metal décor. Corey glanced at the wine list and cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t know much about wine except red goes with pasta and white goes with… pretty much everything else. Which means I’m probably qualified to run a vineyard.”
It wasn’t that funny, but Alison erupted into laughter—a bright, rolling sound that carried across the restaurant. Corey blinked, startled, then chuckled awkwardly.
“You’re funny,” she said, smiling as she twirled a strand of hair around her finger.
As dinner went on, conversation flowed easily enough. They compared notes on law school professors, swapped courtroom horror stories, even commiserated over billing nightmares. She leaned in when he spoke, elbows propped lightly on the table, chin resting in her hand. Every so often her eyes lingered on him, her smile stretching just a bit too long, as if she were holding the moment open.
When dessert came, she traced a finger around the rim of her glass while he described his first case out of school. The gesture seemed almost absent-minded, but it sent a subtle current through the space between them.
It should have felt flattering. And maybe it was, at first. But as the night wore on, Corey couldn’t shake a growing unease. Something about the way she laughed, the way her gaze dipped and returned, the way her fingers toyed with her glass—it all felt a little forced and unnatural.
After dinner they hugged goodbye, polite and warm. No sparks, no awkwardness, just… something he couldn’t put a name to.
Driving home, the gestures replayed in his mind like a highlight reel. The hair twirl. The big laugh. The long, lingering looks. He tried to brush it off, but the unease clung tighter.
When he got home, he opened his laptop and leaned forward. “Omni,” he said, his voice low. “Imagine you’re a woman trying to attract a man. How should she act on a dinner date?”
Omni’s response unfurled smoothly:
“Maintain eye contact. Lean in slightly to show interest. Lightly touch your hair or your glass to create subtle movement. Smile often, and let your laughter come easily, even generously. Let your gaze linger before breaking away. Mirror his posture to build rapport. These signals encourage connection and attraction.”
Corey sat back, chilled. Every single thing Alison had done.
He closed the laptop gently, the whir of its fan suddenly sounding like a secret spoken aloud.
Dolores Holmes
The bathroom counter looked like a war zone. Brushes, palettes, tubes, and compacts were scattered in every direction, the bright colors of blush and shadow smeared like an artist’s studio after a long night. Dolores leaned toward the mirror, squinting as she added one last swipe of electric blue eyeliner to the corner of her eye.
It wasn’t her usual look. Not even close. Normally she stuck to muted tones, the kind of makeup meant to make you look a little fresher without anyone realizing you were wearing it. But tonight, she had gone bold—winged eyeliner, heavy contour, glossy red lips that didn’t look like her at all. Even her hair was different: pinned high, sprayed into stiff perfection, a style she hadn’t tried since college.
She stepped back, tugged at the hem of the sequined top she’d fished out of a clearance rack two weeks ago, and forced herself to smile. The mirror looked back at her with a stranger’s face.
She picked up her phone and snapped a selfie. The flash caught the sequins on her shirt, throwing bright flecks of light across the photo. Then she uploaded it into Sauce.
“New photo received,” Sauce said evenly. “Analysis: high-contrast makeup, non-traditional styling. Clothing: eye-catching, reflective material. Impression: bold, expressive. Potential outcomes: may appeal strongly to niche audiences.”
Dolores felt her stomach sink. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even negative. But the words landed like a judgment all the same. Niche audiences. Translation: you look ridiculous.
She sighed, dragging open the folder where she’d already been stashing selfies. Eleven others stared back at her in neat rows—different hairstyles, different makeup attempts. Straight hair with soft waves. Messy bun with minimal makeup. Smoky eyes with pale lipstick. Each one had earned a similarly sterile breakdown from Sauce.
She clicked through them one by one, remembering the dry commentary for each.
1. Balanced, neutral makeup. Safe, approachable. Did that mean boring?
2. Slight hairstyle variation. Subtle and nuanced. Did that mean forgettable?
3. Heavy eye makeup. High focus on eyes. Did that mean distracting?
On and on, each line clinical, detached.
She scrolled back to the newest photo, the one with the bright lips and sequins, and sighed again. Twelve attempts, twelve versions of herself. None seemed good enough.
Her fingers hovered over the drawer where another blouse waited—something bright, something she hadn’t tried yet. “Okay,” she muttered. “One more. Let’s see if the coral lip works better.”
But before she could start, Sauce’s voice cut in, calm and even. “You have a scheduled pickup for Lily in seventeen minutes. Based on traffic data, you do not have time to prepare another look.”
Dolores frowned at the screen. “I know you told me before, but one more—just five minutes.”
“Current travel conditions require departure within two minutes to arrive on time.”
The words snapped her out of her makeover trance. She glanced at the clock and cursed softly. Snatching off the sequined top, she pulled on her normal jeans and cardigan, grabbed her keys, and bolted for the door. In her rush, she didn’t even think about the bold makeup still painted across her face.
When she arrived at Lily’s school, her heart lurched. Greg was standing by the gate, Lily already tugging at his hand.
“Greg?” she asked, breathless.
He smiled, though there was surprise in his eyes. “Hey. I’m on pickup today, remember? We switched this week because of my late shift.”
Dolores froze, realization dawning. She had remembered—but she’d never updated it in Sauce. Heat rushed to her cheeks, though she couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or the heavy contour.
Greg’s gaze lingered on her face. “New look?” he asked carefully. Not mocking, not even teasing—just curious.
She rubbed at her cheek instinctively, knowing the makeup wouldn’t budge. “I was… trying something for my channel. Seeing if a makeover might help with my reach.”
Greg nodded, and his expression softened. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you already look great in your videos. I watched a couple the other night.”
Her eyes widened. “You did?”
“Yeah.” He gave a small shrug, almost sheepish. “I mean, I know I’m not the target demo. But I actually picked up a few things about AI I didn’t know. You explain it in a way that makes sense.”
Dolores swallowed hard, embarrassment mixing with something else—gratitude, maybe. She’d doubted herself for so long, she didn’t know how to take the compliment. She managed a small, awkward smile.
The silence stretched a beat too long, and Dolores, desperate to break it, leaned down to kiss the top of Lily’s head. “Alright, kiddo. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then she gave a quick wave and turned back toward her car before either of them could say anything else.
She slid into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and exhaled sharply. For a moment, the car felt like a safe bubble—until she caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror. The smeared red lips, the heavy contour, the eyeliner that had gone just a shade too far.
The reflection startled her. Who was that woman staring back? How had she ended up here—scrambling for approval from an algorithm, from strangers online, from her ex-husband?
Dolores gripped the wheel, swallowing hard, the question echoing inside her.
Chapter 6 - Commentary
The Good: Corey’s sixth installment was a solid effort. My initial prompt still needed some refinement as the AI didn’t capture the combination of excitement and nervousness of a first date. I’m including my initial prompt if anyone is curious with the starting point.
The Bad: Jeff’s chapter needed some cleanup. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it “bad” but it was the closest thing to it. Jeff’s discussion with his attorney didn’t play as natural. The advice from the attorney also didn’t ring true based on actual law. I had to spend some time making sure both Jeff and the attorney were acting true to their characters and within the actual law. I even did some rewriting of the section and then pasted it in to get AI’s take rather than the other way around.
The Ugly: Chapter 6 is the moment when I realized how the story should end. When I was writing chapter 5, I started to sense that certain things weren’t working together, but six is where I knew what I wanted. This meant I needed to start going back to prior chapters to build in layers and nuance so that the entire story held together and built toward the ending I had in mind.
NOTES: First prompt for Corey’s sixth chapter.
Let’s move on to chapter 6 for Corey. He worked harder than ever for two reasons. He wasn’t going to lose his girlfriend and his job and since he’d already lost Janet, all his energy went into the job. The grind continued for another two months and even though he made work friends, a loneliness nudged at him. He genuinely missed Janet. He wanted to talk to someone about her. Omni constantly tempted him for that. Why couldn’t he use a computer to help him with a personal relationship? What was the difference between that and a therapist helping him navigate life? Janet didn’t like it but he wasn’t with her anymore. Maybe she wasn’t the one for him. She’d likely moved on, after all, so maybe he should. After fighting the temptation for a month, he finally succumbed and dove back in. He decided to get back out into the dating scene and had Omni prepare a dating profile for dating apps and to organize his schedule for some dates. The focus on this chapter will be a date he goes on. The woman seems like a great match. She’s very similar to him. An attorney. About the same age. Ambitious. Describe the dinner and the give actual conversation. As the dinner progresses Corey starts to pick up on strange things. The woman twirls her hair while staring at him, she rubs the top of her wine glass. Find things that an AI might suggest to a woman trying to attract a man. Corey doesn’t realize this until he’s driving home and then when he asks Omni to imagine he’s a woman and trying to attract a man, what should she do on a dinner date. He asks specifically how she should act. Omni responds with many of the same things that the woman did.