That night, she sat alone in her room, the sphere glowing softly on her nightstand. She tried to remember the last time she’d done something simply because it was right. She couldn’t. The memories had been replaced by a ledger of wins and losses, efficiencies and obstacles.

Not a mechanical buzz, but a low, resonant thrum that vibrated through the linoleum and up into her molars. It smelled faintly of ozone and cinnamon. For three days, it sat there. Claire didn’t mention it. Ellie, a graphic designer who worked from home, found her gaze drifting from her monitor to its matte-black surface. The label was printed in a single, elegant serif font: Immoralless .

The lie was effortless. And that was the final corruption. Not the theft, not the cruelty, but the ease.

She wanted to drop the sphere. To smash it. To run.

Then, a whisper, not in her ears but behind her eyes: What do you want to do, Ellie?