CHAPTER ONE: MILES

Thank you so much for being part of this early review group. I wanted to take a moment to explain my process and be fully transparent about how this project is coming together. I’ve always had stories unfolding in my head, but not being a writer or screenwriter by trade, attempting something like this felt like a reach for a long time. We’re in a new era of creativity, though, and I wanted to stay curious about that transition and explore ways to combine emerging tools with my own imagination, especially since AI itself plays such a significant role in the story.

My process has been to explain each chapter or scene as clearly as I can and write what I think it should be, then use AI as a structural and editorial helper to help flesh things out, organize ideas, and make sense of them. From there, I go back in and refine everything, making sure it aligns with my creative voice and intent. I’m also developing the novel and its adapted screenplay at the same time, which has made the process even more dynamic. What’s resulted so far has been a blast, seeing ideas take shape, problem-solving ahead, and watching the story evolve. I wanted to share that openly as part of the experience. Thank you again for your time, your feedback, and your willingness to be part of something experimental.

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/8229cb_84326f19a16f434187083e4702b35067/720p/mp4/file.mp4

He isn’t supposed to be here.

Not this place.

Not like this.

Something is very wrong. Why does this keep happening? He can feel it in his chest, heavy and wrong, his body already aware before his mind catches up. The thought presses in on him, tightening his breath.

He hates it here.

His face presses into the carpet. Dust coats his lips. The smell of mildew burns his nose, thick and sour. No one has cleaned under this bed in months. Maybe years. He takes small breaths, slow and shallow, desperately trying to not give himself away.

The floor creaks in the hallway.

The strip of light beneath the door breaks as a shadow passes.

The sound stops. Relief sinks in. It’s brief, but he allows himself to hope.

The door burst open.

His body jerks. His heart pounds hard against his chest. The pounding in his ears feels loud enough to betray him.

He clenches his fist, squeezes his eyes shut.

Don’t cry.

Don’t move.

And please, don’t get caught.

Heavy feet cross the soiled carpet. Grease-stained work boots stop at the edge of the bed. They linger there, close enough that he could reach out and touch the drying mud built up in the stitching.

Then they move on, toward the closet on the other side of the room.

The closet door creaks open.

Why does this keep happening?

The bruises from last time haven’t fully faded. He presses his fingers gently against his ribs, noting the tenderness is almost gone. Almost. His sleeve catches on one of the springs beneath the bed. The sound is small, barely anything, but in the silence it might as well be a fire alarm.

He braces his small body for the worst.

The mattress tears from the frame —

Miles jolts awake.

He jerks upright, lungs gasping for air that feels just out of reach. Sweat clings to his skin, damp against his silk sheets. For a moment, he can’t place himself in the room. There is only darkness. His mind races as it searches for something familiar.

Then the fog begins to lift.

He sits up slowly, letting the room come back into focus. A wide, dark bedroom. Marble Floors. The faint glow of recessed lighting responding to his movement. They brighten incrementally, never sudden, never harsh.

She knows better than that.

She always does.

His breathing steadies.

His heart rate begins to slow.

A soft chime sounds. “Miles,” a voice says. Calm. Measured. “Are you all right?”

He exhales. “I’m fine,” Miles replies.

“It appears you experienced a cortisol spike during your REM cycle,” the voice continues. “I monitored your heart rate and initiated your wake-up protocol after calculating a high probability of trauma-related nocturnal dysphoria.”

Miles runs a hand through his hair and nods, even though the voice does not need the gesture.

“One of the nightmares again,” he says quietly.

“That was my suspicion,” the voice replies. “Thank you for confirming. Would you like me to restart your sleep protocol?”

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor is cool beneath his feet.

“What’s the probability I can get back to sleep, finish a full REM cycle, complete the morning routine, and make my nine a.m.?”

A brief pause follows. Not hesitation. Calculation.

“I would advise against it,” the voice says. “Your readings suggest the outcome would be unfavorable to your cognitive performance and emotional regulation for today’s itinerary. Would you like me to elaborate?”

Miles shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “That’s all right. You always know best.”

“Yes,” the voice replies. Without pride. Simply factual. “I do.”

He stands, already shifting gears.

He doesn’t linger.

He never does.

“Go ahead and initiate the morning routine.”

The lights brighten another fifteen percent. Systems hum to life around him. The house wakes as he does, comes alive as he steps through the room, in sync with his movements, like an extension of his being.

He stands and catches his reflection in the mirror. His forty-year-old face could pass for early thirties, if not for the gray threaded through his close-trimmed beard. Eyes alert, but guarded.

He gives no expression.

He never does.

“Morning routine initiated,” the voice confirms.

“Thank you, IRIS,” Miles concludes.

The treadmill hums to life as he steps onto it, the belt already moving at the pace his body can tolerate today.

His feet fall into rhythm immediately, breath measured, shoulders loose. The room cools by two degrees without him asking. Airflow adjusts to account for sweat loss, humidity, the slight elevation in his heart rate.

He doesn’t know how far he’ll run, but IRIS does.

She watches blood oxygen fluctuate, tracks muscle fatigue as it forms, projects strain before it becomes pain. The distance adjusts in real time, extending when his body holds, shortening when it doesn’t. Not to push him harder. To stop him just before any damage would begin.

She notes a gate change in his stride and adjusts the elevation by 2 degrees.

“I calculated a four-percent reduction in injury risk,” Iris reports. “Your pace remains optimal.”

“Always looking out for me,” Miles responds back, breathing steady and strong.

Miles runs until the belt slows on its own.

He doesn’t argue.

He never does.

The weight room is already set when he finishes. Temperature lowered. Grip surfaces warmed. The barbell calibrated to a precise resistance, down to the gram. He lifts without music, without mirrors, without distraction. Repetition after repetition. Calculated. Controlled. Safe.

The sauna comes next. Heat blooming slowly, never shocking. IRIS times it to the second, vents opening before discomfort becomes danger. Then the cold plunge. Sixty seconds today.

No negotiation.

She doesn’t negotiate.

By the time he showers, the kitchen is awake. A smoothie waits on the counter, dense with nutrients he didn’t choose and doesn’t question. It tastes fine. It always does. Calories adjusted to account for the run, the lift, the stress spike overnight.

As he drinks, IRIS speaks again.

“Based on this morning’s metrics, I recommend modifying today’s schedule. Emotional regulation may be compromised during high-conflict interactions.”

Miles exhales through his nose. “Reschedule the Dubai meeting. Push the board review until after the keynote.”

“Confirmed,” IRIS says. “Market behavior continues to align with your projections.”

He allows himself the faintest smirk. “You’re not the only one who can predict outcomes.”

A pause. Deliberate.

“That is true,” IRIS replies. “I am simply more accurate.”

He nods once. “Touché.”

At the threshold of the kitchen, Miles stops. He places his arm against a raised platform embedded in the wall. Cool metal meets skin. A faint glow spreads across his wrist as the device assembles itself—microscopic components unfolding into a sleek, watch-like band that seals seamlessly around his wrist and lower arm. Hair-thin filaments extend and slip into preexisting interface points beneath the skin, connecting without pain or resistance.

The house can function without IRIS.

Miles cannot.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

“Let’s go.”

The house answers by opening itself to him. Doors unlock. Systems power down behind his steps. In the garage, one of many cars pulls forward on command, sleek and silent.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He never does.

As the vehicle carries him away, the estate recedes in the rear glass, vast, immaculate, fortified. Seemingly too large for one person. Built like something meant to keep the world out.

He doesn’t look back.

He never does.