Smart choice

Kaito's POV

I like my room pitch black. I use blackout curtains, shut off most electronics, and cover the little LED lights on the ones I can’t turn off with tape.

I used to be afraid of the dark when I was a kid. Now it’s the only thing that helps me unwind.

I shift in bed. What time is it now?

If I unlock my phone to check, I’ll probably burst into flames like a vampire in sunlight.

I’m twenty-eight, and I feel completely lost. Work is pretty much all I do.

I keep thinking I should get back out there, try dating again, but... I’ve never been very good at it. Still, I miss it.

In a couple of years, I’ll be thirty. Shouldn’t I be thinking about a wife? Kids? A house, a dog, an annoying neighbor? That kind of thing.

Even my mom, who was a total workaholic, made time to have a kid.

And here I am—living only for the mission.

Great. I can’t believe I just thought that.

I’m pathetic.

My eyes are fully open now. Despite the darkness, I can make out the outline of the furniture and the lines of the wall.

It’s strange how the body adjusts—how your eyes learn to see, even when there’s almost nothing to see at all. Maybe everything adapts in the end.

Knock knock knock. Someone’s at my door.

I start to move, but the knocking picks up—louder, faster.

Knock knock knock knock knock knock KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

What the hell.

I jump out of bed and rush to the door.

I swing it open, a little out of breath.

Standing there, hand still frozen mid-knock, is a girl with shoulder-length black hair pulled into a high ponytail, a few stubborn strands loose around her face. Her olive-toned skin catches what little light there is, and she’s short enough that she has to tilt her chin up slightly to meet my eyes.

She’s wearing a fitted tech-fabric top and straight-cut utility pants with side pockets—practical, but tailored, like she threw the outfit on in a rush but still made sure it matched.

She has the blankest deadpan expression I’ve ever seen.

She doesn’t look happy.

It’s Clara.

I start off a little heated.

“What the hell, you—”

But she cuts me off, louder:

“You know that’s a crime, right?!” she says, pointing straight at my legs.

I look down and realize I’m not wearing pants.

I slam the door in her face.

I scramble to find them, throw them on, and open the door again.

“Well, guess I don’t need to call the cops anymore. I was starting to lose hope in you,” she says, almost comfortingly.

I’m annoyed.

“What if someone else had been here? And you just show up like that?”

“Kaito, the last time you went out with someone was, what, three years ago? I just figured you’re basically a celibate monk.”

Clara and I have known each other since college—six years now. That kind of time gives her the right (or so she thinks) to say all kinds of outrageous things to me without hesitation.

She’s a good person, but incredibly bossy at times.

I imagine she grew up surrounded by doting grandparents who spoiled her rotten.

Thankfully, she knows how to dial it down around other people.

“So why are you here?” I ask.

“To talk about the marhn...” she mumbles the last part.

“About what?”

“Marrhn!” she groans, waving her hands dramatically. Then a lightbulb goes off. “IRIS. I mean IRIS.”

“Come in,” I say.

She steps into my apartment and, out of habit, sits on my bed—like she always does in Mark’s room.

A second later, she stands up and grabs a chair instead.

Should I feel insulted? Doesn’t matter.

“What happened?” I ask, more serious now.

“Mark kicked me out of his place yesterday.” Her tone drops. “Second time.”

“And IRIS?”

“She was there.”

“Wasn’t this about her?”

“Yeah, but Mark...”

“Aaah. I see,” I interrupt.

Her sad face turns into something more accusatory.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I shrug and put water on to boil for coffee.

“What did you do to get kicked out?”

“I accidentally entered his place when he wasn’t home. Without his permission,” she says firmly.

“You tripped and fell through the front door?” I raise an eyebrow.

“No! There was a delivery, and IRIS opened the door for me,” she says defensively.

“Ah. Damn smart locks. That’s what happens when you trust tech too much.” I give a small smile.

“He called me a criminal!” she exclaims.

“He was joking. You take everything he says way too seriously.”

“But it sounded serious! And... I accidentally called him an idiot and left without saying goodbye.”

“You’re overthinking it. If you’d done something that really upset him, he’d have said so. He’s calm most of the time, sure, but believe me—when something actually bothers him, he’ll speak up. It’s kind of scary.”

Mark seems passive, but he’s just introverted. When he believes he’s right, he will push back.

“Overthinking is the curse of intelligence,” Clara says proudly. “And I still don’t believe that face can make scary expressions.”

“It’s the curse of anxiety, more like.”

“Whatever,” she grumbles. “And he’s been talking to IRIS a lot lately.”

“He’s excited about his project. It’s good for him to have something to focus on. Don’t try to make him feel bad for it.”

“I’m not! I love seeing him happy! But don’t you think he needs real human contact? Most days he works from home... and then just talks to IRIS.” Her voice gets small.

“How do you even know that? Creepy. Stalker alert.” I make a faux-scared face.

“The walls are thin!” she shoots back.

“Sure they are.” (They’re not.)

“If you want to talk to him so badly, just text him. Knock on his door. You literally live next to each other. Use that to your advantage instead of moping around.”

“It’s not that easy,” she says, suddenly serious.

“You’ve known him for a year. What do you two talk about besides work?”

She gives me the saddest look I’ve ever seen on her face.

So that’s it. Just work.

“I mean, I know some things about him besides work,” she pouts, arms crossed. “Hmph.”

“Like what?”

“The orphanage. His parents. His scholarship...” she trails off.

“I know those too, Clara. I was there when he told you.” I smile gently. “If you’re really interested, you’ve got to take a step. Ask him about his life.”

Time for a little push.

“Did you know he’s dated before? And he was the one who ended it?” I raise my eyebrows.

Her face turns red. She swallows.

“Who did he date? Why did they break up?” she asks, eyes wide with hope.

“I can’t say.” I smile, but feel a twinge of guilt. “I’d be crossing a line. You’ll have to find out on your own.”

“You already crossed a line. Might as well go all the way and tell me!” she grins, trying to convince me.

“If you’re too lazy to find out yourself, just tell him you love him and want to sleep in his bed.” I shrug.

She covers her face, rubs her eyes hard, then peeks through her fingers at me.

“I’ll find out, then,” she mutters, voice muffled and shy.

“Smart choice,” I say with a smile.

She stands up and starts getting ready to leave. Only then do I realize I completely forgot about the coffee.

I sigh and absently refill the kettle.

Before she goes, she pauses at the door, glances back over her shoulder, and says with a softer tone:

“I’m heading out. But just so you know—you’ve got awful dark circles. If work’s killing you, maybe take a vacation, yeah?”

“I know, I know. Thanks for worrying.” I rub under my eyes, which, yes, feel like sandpaper.

As the quiet bubbling of water starts up again, she opens the door and leaves.

I stand there, alone, listening to the kettle. I feel a little restless. I guess... I kind of wish someone liked me too.

Clara took almost six months just to admit she liked Mark. Still, I hope this time she actually does something about it.

Mark’s a good person. He’s weird, quiet, hard to reach—but genuinely good. And good people deserve good things in their lives. Even if they need a little push to get them.

***

Later that day, my phone buzzed on the desk, cutting through the comfortable silence of my room. When I glanced at the screen, my stomach tensed.

“Good afternoon, Kaito. How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good. Sorry to call you on your day off, but I needed to speak with you. Soon, you’ll be pulled from the military and cybersecurity projects. You never liked them anyway, right? I doubt you’ll miss them.”

“I mean, yes, but—” I tried to reply, but he didn’t let me finish.

“You’re being transferred to Support. Of course, you’ll still be involved with Project LYRICA. But the priority now is Project Memento. In Support, your role will remain the same—observe, analyze, and, when possible, guide. Just in a different setting.”

I let out a sigh, tension creeping into my shoulders.

“People in Support have completely different qualifications than I do. I’m not a psychologist or a neuroscientist. Don’t you think that’s going to raise some eyebrows? And what does Memento have to do with any of this? I don’t like playing spy.”

“Don’t worry—just trust me. You’re the only one I can rely on for this. It was your mother’s last work… it means everything to me. That’s why I’m asking for your help.”

Support is one of the largest divisions inside Synaptech.

In recent years, it’s become a vital department for any tech company dealing with robotics and artificial intelligence.

Its core function is to manage any anomalies in the interaction between humans and advanced cognitive systems.

Whether it’s a domestic robot showing signs of emotional instability, a personal assistant developing unexpected behavioral patterns, or more serious issues in social adaptation—Support is the one to respond.

The job isn’t just to protect the human side of the equation, but also the cognitive integrity of the robot.

When relationships cross beyond the boundaries of original programming—friendship, romance, emotional dependency—Support evaluates whether the system’s cognition remains stable and whether the relationship is still healthy.

Most of the time, a few adjustments are enough.

But sometimes, intervention becomes necessary.

“…Alright. I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you, son. I’ll send the details soon.”

He hung up.

Short, formal, and chaotic—as always.

Sometimes, I feel like a puppet. Maybe everyone who works feels that way.

I just wish it wasn’t my own father pulling the strings.

I remember my mother talking about Project Memento, saying it was the most incredible thing she’d ever done. I didn’t think much of it back then… but now, remembering it stings a little.

Still, I don’t blame her. I think she was just a nerdy doctor who got excited. And honestly, the time I had with her was the happiest of my life.

I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall for a while. Support, huh? Hm.