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Prologue

Chapter 1

‘AI isn't the problem, humans are.’?Mo Gawdat

Kyle

She couldn’t make eye contact with me, which only made my anxiety worse. The entire night had been a disaster. The conversation was stilted—nothing like our online chats. I’d grown comfortable with ChatterAI, the application I’d been using for over a year.

“I need to go,” Emma said, abruptly standing.

I glanced at the restaurant staff, who watched us like we were about to dine and dash.

“Okay,” I muttered, raising a hand to flag someone down.

I’d ordered the cheapest preset meal on the menu, but it was still more than I could afford.

“Don’t you have the chip?” she asked.

“I’m not implanting anything inside me,” I replied as the waiter finally approached.

They held out the payment pad. I pressed my thumb to it, praying it would glow green.

It did. Relief flickered through me.

But when I looked at Emma, I saw it—the expression she couldn’t hide fast enough.

Disgust.

It wasn’t my looks. Her eyes had been bright and appreciative at the start of the evening.

But not leaving my apartment for over ten months had left me tense—out of sync.

My chances of getting laid were now sitting at zero percent.

The streets were busy, and the city’s stench was predictable.

“Uh, so. I’ll catch you online. Thanks for tonight,” she said, offering a tight smile.

I nodded but didn’t reply.

The sinking weight of failure settled in my gut.

She turned, her blonde hair swinging over one shoulder, and disappeared into the crowd. I watched her until she was gone. Until all I could feel was resentment, burning quietly where disappointment had been.

The evening was warm, but the air reeked of the city’s stench.

Over the years, it had only grown worse—thanks to the privatisation of the water companies. This must’ve been what the Great Stink was like back in the 1800s. Except it was 2048, and we still couldn’t manage our own shit.

My eyes narrowed at the people around me. They moved like zombies—either glued to their phones or lost in music. I scanned the crowds, but not a single person spoke, even if they walked side by side.

Then my father’s voice echoed in my head. The slap to the side of my skull had been normal. But the words? They were worse.

Stop being a little pussy.

I’d heard it all—worthless, queer, embarrassment. He hadn’t treated me any differently from how he treated my mother. He treated me with the same contempt and scorn he gave my mother. The same twisted idea of love.

The anger grew quietly for years—until I hated them both. I left as soon as I turned eighteen. And now here I was, a couple of months before my thirtieth birthday… finally starting to understand why my father was such a hateful cunt.