Dust scraped against the booth windows, relentless and abrasive as time lurched toward 2 AM. Steve hunched over Riley's phone, his face illuminated by the screen's pale glow as his fingers tapped frantically across the surface. Six hours remained until the SkyTech meeting—six hours slipping through his fingers like the fine dust invading every crack of the abandoned store.

  "This might actually work," he muttered, relief flooding his system as his PulseSync accounts loaded. The login screen accepted his credentials, email inbox appearing with dozens of unread messages, most from the SkyTech team finalizing meeting details. "Finally, something going right."

  Riley perched on the stool behind the counter, her gaze fixed on the phone in Steve’s hands—unblinking, uneasy, as if the device itself held a fuse.

  "Maybe we should take it slower," she suggested, voice smooth as still water against the storm's rage outside. "The battery won't last all night if you keep going this hard."

  "Slower?" Steve let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Do you even understand what's at stake?"

  A notification popped up at the bottom of the screen: "Hello, Steve Warrick. I'm Cal, your digital assistant. How may I help with your workflow today?"

  Steve's breath caught. An AI assistant—not Nexus, but perhaps similar enough. A lifeline in this dusty hell.

  "Cal, access PulseSync presentation files for SkyTech Global meeting," he commanded, falling naturally into the rhythm he used with Nexus.

  "Accessing files," the assistant responded smoothly. "Would you like me to prepare key talking points based on previous correspondence with representatives?"

  Hope surged, electric and fierce. This might actually work. "Yes. And pull the latest performance metrics. I need the client acquisition numbers from last quarter."

  Riley didn't flinch at his tone, just regarded him with that maddeningly steady gaze. "I understand pressure, Steve. But some things are beyond our control."

  Her words grated against his already frayed nerves. Beyond control? Nothing was beyond control for Steve Warrick. He'd built his company from nothing, designed a revolutionary architecture himself, secured investors through sheer force of will and vision. Control was everything.

  Dust sifted through invisible cracks as Steve worked, mind racing, fingers flying across the screen. Cal responded to each command almost as efficiently as Nexus, pulling files, organizing data, preparing the scaffolding of his presentation. For the first time since his car died on the highway, Steve felt a measure of control returning.

  He settled deeper into the vinyl chair behind the counter, Riley's phone clutched like salvation in his dust-coated hands. Outside, the storm continued its relentless assault, but inside, in the digital space where Steve felt most at home, progress was happening. Time might be sufficient after all.

  That's when he noticed the first glitch.

  An email draft to Jason Chen, SkyTech's acquisition lead, showed strange formatting—text broken into uneven paragraphs, certain words italicized that shouldn't be. Steve frowned, correcting the errors.

  "Cal, fix the formatting on this draft," he instructed.

  "Attempting to fix formatting," the AI replied. A pause, then: "I apologize, but I'm experiencing difficulty with this particular document."

  Steve's frown deepened. "Then create a new draft. Follow standard business format."

  "Creating new draft," Cal confirmed.

  As he dictated the message content, Steve noticed more inconsistencies—small but accumulating errors. Numbers transposed in the financial projections. Product features slightly mislabeled.

  Riley leaned forward, watching the screen with increasing concern. "It's starting, isn't it? The glitches I told you about."

  "It's fine," Steve dismissed, not looking up. "Just minor bugs. Nothing I can't handle."

  "I don't think you understand," Riley said, shifting uncomfortably. "When it starts like this, it gets worse. Maybe I should take it back now."

  "I'll handle any technical issues," he replied, voice hardening. "Just a little longer. Once I finish this email-"

  "Steve," Riley's voice took on an edge. "I warned you about the problems. I need my phone back."

  "I need it more," he replied, turning slightly away from her. "The battery on this has hours left. I'll give it back when I'm done."

  "That's not what concerns me," Riley said, standing abruptly. "You're not listening. That phone isn't safe."

  "It's a phone," he snapped, fingers already navigating to send the email. "And right now, it's the only thing standing between me and complete failure."

  Riley's face changed then, something like resignation settling over her features. "Fine. If that's your choice."

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Without another word, she turned, walking to the booth door and yanking it open. The storm howled through the gap, dust swirling in angry eddies around her silhouette.

  "What are you doing?" Steve called over the wind's roar. "You can't go out there!"

  "I'm not staying in here," Riley replied, not turning back. "I am scared. You are being aggressive."

  Then she was gone, door slamming behind her, swallowed by the dusty darkness outside. Steve stood frozen for a moment, guilt and relief battling briefly before pragmatism crushed both. He had what he needed. That was all that mattered now.

  Dust lashed the booth, grinding into cracks, choking air as Steve grappled with Riley's phone, browser loading, deadline slicing closer, heart slamming like a war drum against the silence left in her wake.

  "Send the finished email," he instructed Cal, eager to complete at least one concrete task.

  "Sending email now," the assistant confirmed.

  A notification appeared seconds later: "Email sent to: Jason Chen, SkyTech Global."

  Relief washed through Steve. One step completed. Progress in the face of chaos. He opened the sent folder to confirm, scanning the message quickly.

  His blood froze.

  The email that had gone to Jason Chen was garbled beyond recognition—numbers completely wrong, projections suggesting TaskNet was failing rather than thriving, text filled with typos and grammatical errors no professional would make. It looked like the work of an amateur, a fraud—exactly what Steve feared being revealed as if the deal fell through.

  "No, no, no!" He stared at the screen in horror. "This isn't what I dictated! Cal, what happened?"

  "I apologize for the error," the AI replied smoothly. "Would you like me to send a correction?"

  Error flares—email to SkyTech garbled, projections botched. Steve freezes, raw. "Human assistants mess up, not Nexus—what is this junk?" Burden scatters for a stolen moment, dust drifting as failure stings, though that sobbing noise grates harder.

  A sound penetrated his concentration—faint at first, then growing louder. A human sound, coming from outside the booth.

  Crying.

  Riley was crying, the sound carrying through the booth walls despite the storm's fury. Not loud, dramatic sobs, but the steady, rhythmic crying of someone who had given up hope.

  Steve tried to ignore it, focus narrowing to the screen before him, to the task at hand. But the sound persisted, worming its way into his consciousness, disrupting his train of thought.

  "Dammit," he muttered, fingers pausing over the keyboard. "I can't concentrate with that noise."

  The crying continued, soft yet somehow cutting through everything else. Steve's irritation mounted, deadline pressure crushing against this unexpected disruption.

  "Cal, finish this email to Jason Chen. Explain that despite travel complications, I'm fully prepared for tomorrow's meeting and expect to demonstrate TaskNet's full capabilities as discussed."

  "Completing email now," the AI responded.

  Steve returned to the metrics, trying to organize the presentation flow while blocking out Riley's persistent sobs. The sound grated against his nerves, each hitching breath another distraction he couldn't afford.

  "Yes, send a correction immediately!" he snapped, panic rising. "Explain there was a technical error. The correct figures are..." He began rattling off the actual numbers, heart pounding as he tried to salvage the situation.

  Outside, Riley's crying intensified slightly, voice breaking on what sounded like his name. The sound pierced through his concentration, an auditory splinter he couldn't remove.

  "Steve, please," her voice carried through the walls, strained yet steady through dust. "You don't understand what's happening!"

  The interruption shattered his focus completely. Cursing, he stood, moving to the window where her voice seemed strongest.

  "I'm busy fixing a disaster here!" he called back, anger masking fear. "If you'd stop making that noise, maybe I could concentrate!"

  Through the dust-caked glass, he could barely make out her form—a shadow in the storm, arms wrapped around herself against the biting grit. The sight should have inspired pity, but in his frenzied state, Steve felt only irritation. Another obstacle. Another complication. Another threat to the control he so desperately needed.

  Steve turned away from the window, back to the device that represented his only hope. "Cal, has the correction been sent?"

  "Correction email drafted," the AI responded. "Would you like to review before sending?"

  "Yes, show me." His eyes scanned the new message anxiously, looking for errors.

  This one appeared correct—proper formatting, accurate numbers, professional tone. Steve exhaled slightly. "Send it now."

  "Sending correction email to: Jason Chen, SkyTech Global."

  His shoulders sagged with momentary relief, though Riley's persistent crying continued to scratch at his concentration. He had to focus. Had to prepare. Had to regain control of this spiraling situation.

  "Cal, access the TaskNet presentation deck. I need to review all slides before the meeting."

  "Accessing presentation deck," the AI confirmed. "Loading now."

  The screen displayed a loading icon, spinning hypnotically against the dark background. Seconds stretched to a minute. Two minutes. The icon continued spinning.

  "Cal, what's the delay?" Steve demanded, impatience mounting.

  "I apologize for the inconvenience. The file appears to be corrupted. Attempting recovery now."

  That sick feeling returned, spreading through Steve's gut like poison. "Corrupted? That's impossible. Those files are backed up across multiple servers."

  "Nevertheless, I am unable to access the complete presentation at this time," Cal replied, voice maintaining that infuriatingly calm tone while Steve's world crumbled. "Would you like me to attempt to rebuild it from available fragments?"

  Outside, Riley's voice rose again, more insistent: "Steve! It's only going to get worse! Whatever you think you're fixing, it's going to break again!"

  Her words sent an unwelcome chill down his spine, too accurately reflecting what was happening on the screen before him. But he couldn't stop now. Couldn't surrender to superstition or coincidence. The SkyTech meeting was hours away, and he needed these materials.

  "Yes, rebuild it," he told Cal, desperation edging his voice. "And ignore any background noise. I need to focus."

  "Understood, Steve. Rebuilding presentation from fragments. This may take some time."

  Time. The one resource he was rapidly running out of. The booth clock now read 2:47 AM. Just over five hours until the meeting that would determine everything.

  Dust continued its assault on the booth, working its way through invisible cracks, settling on every surface, infiltrating Steve's lungs with each stressed breath. Outside, Riley's crying had subsided to occasional sniffles, though he could sense her presence still nearby, a silent accusation through the storm.

  Steve stared at the loading screen, at the spinning icon that held his future hostage, and felt control slipping through his fingers like the fine dust that covered everything in this godforsaken place.

  "Maybe you should have hired a real assistant, Steve," he muttered to himself, the thought emerging unbidden from some traitorous corner of his mind. Real assistants made mistakes, yes. But they didn't glitch. Didn't corrupt. Didn't fail when you needed them most.

  The phone in his hand suddenly felt heavier, warmer—as if responding to his thoughts. Steve shook his head, dismissing the fancy as stress-induced paranoia. It was just a phone. Just a tool. And he would make it work, just as he had made everything in his life work through sheer force of will.