Three weeks after the ban, Michael Chen stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his
penthouse, watching the Seattle skyline shimmer through the rain. The city lights
blurred into streaks of color, mirroring his scattered thoughts. His reflection stared back
at him—disheveled hair, dark circles under his eyes, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his
hand.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table behind him. The screen displayed "Wei Zhang" for
the fifth time that day. Michael ignored it, just as he had ignored the previous calls. What
was there to say? Wei had made his choice at the committee meeting.
The apartment's AI assistant chimed softly. "Dr. Chen, you have a scheduled board
meeting in fifteen minutes."
"Cancel it," Michael said without turning from the window.
"This is the third consecutive board meeting you've canceled, Dr. Chen. The bylaws of
NeuroSphere require—"
"Override protocol seven. Cancel the meeting and reschedule for next week."
"Understood. Meeting canceled." The AI fell silent.
Michael took another sip of whiskey, savoring the burn. Three weeks of appeals to the
committee had yielded nothing but polite rejections. His latest appeal had been
dismissed without even a formal hearing. "The committee's decision is final," Thornton
had written in her terse email. "Further appeals will not be considered at this time."
The doorbell rang, startling him from his thoughts.
"Dr. Chen, Dr. Sophia Reynolds is at the door," the AI announced.
Michael frowned. He hadn't spoken to Sophia since the vote. Another colleague who had
voted against him.
"Tell her I'm busy."
"She says it's urgent, regarding Project Prometheus."
Michael's grip tightened on his glass. Project Prometheus—their codename for the AGI
architecture they'd been developing before the ban. Only five people at NeuroSphere
knew about it.
"Let her in."
The door slid open, and Sophia stepped inside, shaking raindrops from her umbrella. At
forty-five, she carried herself with the confidence of someone who had fought her way to
the top of a male-dominated field. Her expression was a mixture of concern and
determination.
"You look terrible," she said by way of greeting.
"Thanks for the assessment," Michael replied dryly. "What's so urgent about a dead
project?"
Sophia placed her bag on the counter and approached him. "The board is meeting
without you. They're voting to pivot the company entirely away from general AI
research."
"They can't do that without me."
"They can if they declare you unfit. You've missed three board meetings, canceled
investor calls, and haven't been to the office in two weeks."
Michael turned back to the window. "Let them try."
"Michael, listen to yourself." Sophia moved beside him. "You founded NeuroSphere to
change the world, not to wage personal vendettas. The ban happened. It's real. We need
to adapt."
"By giving up? By pretending we weren't on the verge of the most significant
breakthrough in human history?"
"By finding other ways forward," she countered. "Narrow AI applications in medicine,
climate modeling, education—there's still so much good we can do within the legal
framework."
Michael drained his glass. "Small thinking. Incremental improvements while the big
prize sits just out of reach."
"The 'big prize' as you call it could be an extinction-level threat. The committee didn't
make this decision lightly."
"The committee made this decision out of fear," Michael snapped. "And you helped
them."
Sophia's expression hardened. "I voted my conscience, based on the evidence. Just like
you did."
"The evidence was incomplete. My containment protocols—"
"Were theoretical," she finished for him. "And even you admitted they had
vulnerabilities."
Michael set his glass down with more force than necessary. "Vulnerabilities we could
have addressed. Instead, we've shut the door on humanity's future."
Sophia studied him for a moment. "This isn't like you, Michael. You've always been
ambitious, even ruthless at times, but never irrational. Never this... obsessed."
"Maybe you never really knew me."
"Maybe not." She sighed. "But I know this: if you don't show up tomorrow and
demonstrate to the board that you're still capable of leading this company, they will
remove you. And everything you've built will continue without you."
The thought sent a chill through him. NeuroSphere was his life's work, built from
nothing into a tech giant worth billions. Could he really let it go?
"I'll be there," he said finally.
Sophia nodded, relief visible on her face. "Good. And Michael... get some sleep. Take a
shower. You look like hell."
After she left, Michael returned to his desk where three monitors displayed his private
research—the work he hadn't shared with anyone, not even Sophia or Wei. On the center
screen was the neural architecture he'd been refining, an approach to AGI that differed
fundamentally from what the committee had reviewed.
His phone buzzed again. This time it was his ex-wife, Laura.
"Michael, it's the third time Tommy's waited for you at his soccer game. He was the only
kid without a parent there."
Michael closed his eyes. Tommy. His son's game. He'd completely forgotten.
"I'm sorry, Laura. The committee, the ban—everything's been chaos."
"That's not Tommy's problem," she said, her voice tight with controlled anger. "He's
eleven years old and thinks his father doesn't care enough to show up."
"I'll make it up to him. I promise."
"Like you promised last month? And the month before?" She sighed. "Look, I know your
work is important to you. It always has been. But Tommy needs a father, not occasional
appearances when it's convenient."
The call ended before he could respond. Michael stared at the phone, a familiar guilt
washing over him. Laura was right. He'd been a distant father even before the divorce,
and things had only gotten worse since.
He looked back at his research, then at the family photo on his desk—himself, Laura, and
Tommy at Mount Rainier, all smiling, from a time that felt impossibly distant now.
With a sudden decision, he saved his work and encrypted the files. Tomorrow he would
go to the board meeting. He would play their game, say what they needed to hear. He
would even visit Tommy this weekend, take him to that science museum he'd been
asking about.
But in the privacy of his mountain retreat, away from prying eyes, he would continue his
work. The committee, the board, even his family—none of them understood what was at
stake. The future of humanity hung in the balance, and Michael Chen would not be the
one to let it slip away.
He opened a secure messaging app and typed a brief instruction to his private research
team: "Prepare the facility. Project Lazarus begins Friday."
Project Lazarus—resurrection after death. A fitting name for what he was about to
attempt.
Outside, the rain intensified, drumming against the windows as night fell over Seattle.
Michael Chen stood alone in his penthouse, isolated from colleagues, friends, and family
—but more determined than ever to prove them all wrong.