The air was stale. The modern open‑office illusion of a bright, inspiring workplace had lost its charm a few thousand manuscripts ago. Right around the time I realised no amount of dedicated editing could make the plot of Alpha’s Destined Rouge (because every fearsome Alpha apparently needs a pop of colour on his cheeks) or Billionaire’s Hidden Desire feel like actual literature.
To be perfectly honest, I only had myself to blame. For deciding I wasn’t imaginative enough to sustain a career as a novelist; for convincing myself this was my dream job; and for staying after all the “emergencies” Randall, the perfumed, pretend chief editor, happily dropped into my editing queue. Of course he knew I was not only going to do the job — I was going to work to the best of my ability — and he would get the credit.
There was a time I used to write until sunrise, convinced I had something worth saying. Whole weekends vanished into half‑finished worlds and characters who felt more real than the people around me. But somewhere between rejection emails, rent increases, and Randall’s “urgent” edits, I stopped believing my own stories mattered. I told myself editing was close enough — close enough to the dream, respectable, safe.
Maybe that was the biggest lie I ever allowed myself to believe, that settling was the same thing as choosing.
And as if on cue: “Bryce, I know it’s getting late, but this one is just eluding me. Would you be a doll — who even speaks like this — and cast your eyes over it, add some secret Alpha spice to it? It needs more angst, more friction. I need it for tomorrow morning. Thanks, doll.”
“Sorry, Randall,” I replied, my tone anything but sorry, “I have no Alpha spice left” — I wouldn’t give it to you if I had, the angry voice in my head added — “and I have plans for tonight. You know how it is, right?”
With that, I left Randall gaping at me — a perfect impersonation of a B‑plot villain from the many submissions I had to proofread — powered down my workstation, and headed for the exit, my gym bag slung across my right shoulder.
I got to the gym late, which annoyed me further. It meant I only had forty, maybe forty-five minutes to swim. I scanned in with my phone and beelined it to the locker room. Getting ready for the pool had always been enough to quiet the noise. This night was different.
I stuffed my belongings into the locker. Normally, I’d have done a quick warm‑up set before the pool, but Randall’s crude power play had spiked my temper. Not just that he tried to use me again, but that he thought I was dim enough to let him.
As I burst through the swinging doors to the pool hall — jaw clenched, fists tight — my thoughts looped back to: “Thanks, doll.”
I’ll show you “thanks, doll”, you pretentious little weasel…
The duty lifeguard shifted on his perch, eyes wide as I strode past him. Apparently my “Randall is a dead man” face was a bit too convincing. That was enough to snap me back.
The pool hall was well lit, only a few swimmers in their own lanes, the smell of chlorinated water grounding me further. I was so done with all the drama.
With the locker key secured in the inner pocket of my jammers (the tight shorts swimmers prefer for their zero drag), I dove in, welcoming the liquid embrace of the pool. This was my sanctuary; it had been since I was three years old, and I couldn’t see it ever changing.
An old memory surfaced as the water closed over me: my mum sitting on the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the water, waiting for me to take my first real dive. I must have been six or seven, already a confident swimmer, but diving head‑first still terrified me. I always loved watching her dive — perfect form, barely a splash, slicing through the water like she was returning to the place she belonged.
Tingles spread through my scalp, down my spine, enveloping my torso and fizzing out through my limbs. The momentum of my dive propelled me through the water effortlessly. I surfaced, took a big breath, and settled into an easy rhythm.
My body cutting through the water — the way my muscles worked with my lungs and heart to carry me through — was the best medicine for my conflicted, stressed‑out mind.
The job, my non‑existent love life, the pressure of feeling like I hadn’t achieved anything in almost three decades of life — all of it just ceased to be. How ironic that it also became the final margin of my unfinished life draft.
I increased my speed to get a solid thirty minutes of high‑intensity workout before closing time. The sound of my breathing, my heartbeat, and the water were the best “noise‑cancelling headphones” I could have hoped for.
I was approaching the sweet spot, pushing as hard as I could, my movements easier, breath and heartbeat strong and steady. I ignored the twinges in my chest — until my heart painfully skipped a beat.
The shock of it made me falter. I tried sucking in air, but my throat spasmed shut mid‑stroke. The inability to draw breath or scream seared my throat; my arms flailed, and suddenly I couldn’t tell which way was up or down.
Light distorted into a chlorinated blur. The only sound I could hear was the wild whooshing of water in my ears as I desperately tried to surface.
I sank.
My mind scrambled for reason, for something — anything — that was going to save me, unable to see enough to orient myself. Water was all there was.
My heart stuttered — discordant — like a dancer losing their rhythm mid‑leap. My lungs burned, and as my chest spasmed, I desperately gasped for air that wasn’t there, unable to override the survival instinct that was anything but.
The burn spread, cauterising my insides into a dull ache. My arms and legs were no longer responding to my commands.
My mum’s perfect dive, slicing through water like she belonged there, flickered through me.
My vision blinked out like a smothered flame.
[Warning: Biological Core has reached the Offline Threshold.] [Initiating ‘Harmoniser’ Protocol: Connection attempt in 3…2…1.]
The Harmoniser was bored — as much as beings of thought and energy could be bored.
So much effort, time, and resources had been poured into these vast experiments. And they certainly showed promise in the early stages. The last few cycles of the biosphere experiment (the sentient Biological Cores recorded it as “millennia”) were trending on an infinitesimal downward trajectory.
A faint tremor in the tapestry of outputs brushed against its consciousness: a Biological Core edging towards an alternate path. The Harmoniser focused in on the anomaly, intrigued by the being’s tiny storms of rage.
It sifted through fragments of the Bio‑Core’s existence, letting the creature’s patterns spool across its awareness. Only after an entire attosecond — an indulgent stretch, by its standards — did it concede that the little core was, in fact, amusing.
It knew the Formulators were a few cycles away from scrubbing the whole thing. The whole thing? Peculiar. I appear to have adopted some of the Bio‑Core’s expressions.
It also knew it should simply let it happen. Having spent all of its existence observing the biosphere cycles, it was curious whether this was all there was going to be.
So when the Resonator alerted it to the Bio‑Core approaching the Offline Threshold, the Harmoniser allowed itself a moment of consideration before intervening, sending a cascade of cycle‑altering ripples through the biosphere.
The extraction procedure was relatively straightforward. It needed only to isolate the Bio‑Core’s processor and disengage it from the biological casing before data degradation occurred.
[Processor stream detected. Stabilisation required.]
[‘Harmoniser’ Protocol initiated; connection to Bio‑Core holding.]
<Acknowledged. Prepare the containment zone. Stabilise the processor stream and isolate residual biological noise.>