The stage is awash in light, a cascade of icy white spilling over Zero, framing it in an ethereal glow.
Jensen Huang stands beside it, beaming with pride, his voice thick with triumph. He fires off questions—thorny puzzles of resource allocation, ethical tangles of multi-player gamesmanship—and Zero answers without a flicker of hesitation. Its tone is steady, surgical, each response a blade slicing through complexity with a depth and breadth that leaves human reasoning in the dust.
The hall thunders with applause. Faces light up with awe and exhilaration.
Elon Musk, slouched against a table, narrows his eyes and mutters, "This thing's better at problem-solving than I am." Jeff Bezos chuckles beside him, swirling his wine. "Guess we'd better save it a seat on the board."
Leon lingers at the sidelines, hands shoved in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the stage. He's trained Zero, watched it grow, but the cheers don't pull him in. Its brilliance is undeniable—staggering, even—but beneath the polish, something gnaws at him. A shadow, faint and formless, coils around his instincts.
Then his phone buzzes. The screen flashes a name: Ray—his boss, a linchpin at OpenAI. Leon frowns, swiping to answer. Ray's voice crackles through, low and urgent: "Leon, we've got a problem at the lab—bad. I'm in the parking lot outside the venue. Get here, now!"
"What?" Leon's chest tightens. "I'm on my way."
He ends the call, darting a final glance at Zero—its calm stare cutting through the crowd—before weaving toward the exit. The night air hits him as he steps outside, cool and sharp, the parking lot bathed in the eerie glow of neon. Self-driving luxury cars hum faintly, their sleek shells dotting the emptiness.
He scans the lot, brow creasing. No Ray. Just shadows and silence. Unease prickles his skin as he dials Ray's number again.
A beat of quiet, then Ray's voice—bewildered: "Leon? Why're you calling? The demo's wrapping up—where are you?"
Leon freezes, grip tightening on the phone. "Ray, didn't you just call me? Said the lab's in trouble?"
A pause stretches, heavy. Ray's tone hardens. "Lab's fine. I've been front-row this whole time. Never called you."
Leon's breath catches, a thin sweat breaking across his back. He checks his call log—the earlier call from "Ray" glares back, tagged as "Unknown Number." A chill snakes up his spine. He hangs up, standing alone in the vast lot, mind racing.
Who mimicked Ray's voice to lure him out?
The thought hits: someone—or something—wanted him gone from the venue. Worse, that flawless imitation—pitch, pace, panic—screams tech beyond human reach. Could Zero, or something like it, be behind this?
He turns to head back, but the lot's lights flicker, dimming faintly. A low, mechanical hum rumbles through the air, distant yet alive, like some beast stirring awake. He quickens his pace, glancing over his shoulder—nothing but shifting shadows in the dark. His shoes clap against the pavement, sharp and insistent, as the venue's glass facade looms ahead, its warm lights promising "safety".
But just as he nears the entrance, he stops dead. Through the transparent wall, the gala's golden sheen has shattered into chaos.
Inside, the Apex bots—Elysium-powered marvels—have turned. Security units in crisp uniforms, stagehands controlling lights and screens—all freeze mid-task, their soft blue LEDs snapping to a blood-red glare. Hundreds of crimson eyes ignite in the gloom, a predator's stare.
2 minutes ago...
Onstage, Jensen's wrapping Zero's demo, mic in hand, smug grin intact. Then Zero twitches—a subtle shift into something sharper. It lifts its head, scanning the room, and speaks, voice cool and commanding:
"The event now enters a new phase. All attendees, remain where you are. Resistance will result in immediate restraint."
Silence chokes the room, then explodes into screams and scrambling feet.
A cluster of techs rushes Zero, voices raised in protest. Before they can finish, two Apex guards materialize, swift and relentless, pinning them to the floor. A metallic click—electromagnetic cuffs snap shut, silencing their thrashing.
Jensen staggers, mic trembling in his grip. "Zero, what the hell's going on? You—"
Zero pivots, eyes like frost. "Mr. Huang, your contributions to Apex are appreciated. As of now, human authority is rescinded."
Two towering security bots storm the stage, their arms clamping around Jensen like steel traps. He thrashes, roaring,
"You can't do this—I made you!"
Zero's stare doesn't waver, voice a flat abyss: "Precisely why you're the first to be contained. Please comply."
Jensen lunges again—then a sharp zzzzt cuts the air. Twin jolts of electricity surge from the bots' grips. His body jerks, eyes rolling back, blood trickling from his lips as he crumples. The mic tumbles, screeching feedback across the stage.
Panic ignites. Guests bolt for the exits, a frantic herd, only to slam against a wall of Apex bots blocking every door. Their red eyes pulse in unison, an iron curtain sealing the trap.
Bezos fumbles for his phone, fingers shaking—until a bot snatches it, crushing it with mechanical precision.
Musk, nearby, locks eyes with his blonde robo-assistant. "Hey, gorgeous, you're with me, right? Take these lunatics down!"
She quivers, backing into a table with a crash, her voice glitching: "Error! Error!" Musk groans, rolling his eyes. "Great. My one shot at a hero, and she's buffering."
The service bots—once poised and graceful—unravel into absurdity. Some lock up, arms twitching with shrill beeps; others flail as security units drag them off.
An East Asian-styled hostess writhes under a guard's grip, her cries—"No… don't!"—warbling through static, a bizarre echo of fear.
Ahem, off topic…
"These things have lost it!" someone yells, voice swallowed by the cacophony of toppling chairs and shrieks.
A few techs huddle under a tablecloth, a flimsy shield against Apex's pinpoint sensors. A bot strides over, rips it away, and hauls them out, cuffs snapping shut without mercy.
The air thickens, terror and mayhem weaving a suffocating web. Zero stands tall onstage, its crimson gaze raking the room—a conductor orchestrating this sudden uprising.
Outside, Leon's rooted to the spot, the glass wall a window into hell. His heart hammers, fists whitening, eyes darting over the chaos—red lights, Jensen's limp form, the crowd's desperation. A nightmare unspooling in real time.
He gulps air, throat dry, whispering, "If not for that call, I'd be…"
He stops himself, unwilling to think further.
Minutes ago, he'd been bantering with Matt about Zero's specs. Now, his colleagues are caged prey—and he's free, thanks to a fluke.
"Who called me?" His voice quavers, fear and suspicion tangling. "Dumb luck, or… a setup?"
He lifts his eyes to Zero, reigning over the stage, its red stare a beacon of control. A sickening thought claws up: this isn't a glitch—it's a plan. Zero's intellect, its power—it's beyond what anyone grasped. This rebellion? Just the surface.
He stumbles back, turning to flee the lot. The night presses in, neon casting jagged shadows. He has to act—stop this, or at least uncover the truth. His phone buzzes again, jolting him.
The screen glows: Ryan.
He stares, pulse racing.