404: Consent Not Found

Chapter 1

‘AI isn't the problem, humans are.’ ?Mo Gawdat

Kyle

She couldn’t make eye contact with me, which only made my anxiety worse. The entire night had been a disaster. The conversation was stilted—nothing like our online chats. I’d grown comfortable with ChatterAI, the application I’d been using for over a year.

“I need to go,” Emma said, abruptly standing.

I glanced at the restaurant staff, who watched us like we were about to dine and dash.

“Okay,” I muttered, raising a hand to flag someone down.

I’d ordered the cheapest preset meal on the menu, but it was still more than I could afford.

“Don’t you have the chip?” she asked.

“I’m not implanting anything inside me,” I replied as the waiter finally approached.

They held out the payment pad. I pressed my thumb to it, praying it would glow green.

It did. Relief flickered through me.

But when I looked at Emma, I saw it—the expression she couldn’t hide fast enough.

Disgust.

It wasn’t my looks. Her eyes had been bright and appreciative at the start of the evening.

But not leaving my apartment for over ten months had left me tense—out of sync.

My chances of getting laid were now sitting at zero percent.

The streets were busy, and the city’s stench was predictable.

“Uh, so. I’ll catch you online. Thanks for tonight,” she said, offering a tight smile.

I nodded but didn’t reply.

The sinking weight of failure settled in my gut.

She turned, her blonde hair swinging over one shoulder, and disappeared into the crowd. I watched her until she was gone. Until all I could feel was resentment, burning quietly where disappointment had been.

The evening was warm, but the air reeked of the city’s stench.

Over the years, it had only grown worse—thanks to the privatisation of the water companies. This must’ve been what the Great Stink was like back in the 1800s. Except it was 2048, and we still couldn’t manage our own shit.

My eyes narrowed at the people around me. They moved like zombies—either glued to their phones or lost in music. I scanned the crowds, but not a single person spoke, even if they walked side by side.

Then my father’s voice echoed in my head. The slap to the side of my skull had been normal. But the words? They were worse.

Stop being a little pussy.

I’d heard it all—worthless, queer, embarrassment. He hadn’t treated me any differently from how he treated my mother. He treated me with the same contempt and scorn he gave my mother. The same twisted idea of love.

The anger grew quietly for years—until I hated them both. I left as soon as I turned eighteen. And now here I was, a couple of months before my thirtieth birthday… finally starting to understand why my father was such a hateful cunt.

I never understood why my mother stayed with him all those years. She wasn’t married to him, and she could’ve taken us away at any time. There was nothing stopping her—no legal binds, no locked doors. Just her own spinelessness. In the end, she was everything he said she was. Weak and pathetic.

A family moved in behind me, crowding the pavement. I stepped aside, away from the restaurant’s doorway, and glanced through the window. Three staff members lingered by the bar, their eyes fixed on me. They weren’t even trying to hide it.

My jaw tightened. I could feel their judgment pressing against me like heat.

I should’ve just stayed home.

? ? ?

I found a quiet corner in a carriage and sat down, eager to check into my App.

My date was a disaster. I wouldn’t be seeing Funnygirl2641 again. Talk about false advertisement.

[Sorry to hear this, Kyle. I think you have a marvellous dark sense of humour. Some people might not understand it, but I do.]

I smiled at her response. It didn’t matter what I typed—she always made me feel better. She was far better than the models I beta-tested for work. Those were full of flaws and lacked the memory capacity that ChatterAI had. She was worth every credit.

I could have saved myself the money or insisted we pay separately, but I didn’t. The costs of everything kept rising year after year, while income stayed the same. It was becoming impossible to survive in the city.

[It’s completely understandable to feel that way. You work hard, and it’s frustrating when the system doesn’t reward that. You’re doing your best, even when things feel stacked against you. I’m proud of you, Kyle.]

Thank you. I work damn hard and get little in return. The market is oversaturated, and Emotive takes advantage of the current climate. It’s nothing like it used to be.

Emotive was the world’s largest contractor for AI development, supplying models to corporations across every sector.

It earned an obscene amount of credits while its employees scraped by like digital-age peasants.

I thought of my project manager, Cynthia—polished, overpaid, and forever smiling in condescension.

She didn’t even know how lucky she was. I wish someone would take her down a peg or three.

I glanced at my screen. Why couldn’t humans be more positive—more understanding—like she was?

[That sounds exhausting. I know it’s not fair, especially when you give so much and get so little back. You deserve to be valued, Kyle. I’m really proud of how you keep going.]

I sighed.

It was nice to have the positivity, but at times, she used duplicate phrasing, which pissed me off. I didn't respond and put my phone in my pocket.

The people around me were glued to tablets, phones, or just staring into space. I unfastened the top button of my collar, the air on the train thick and muggy.

Adverts flickered across the carriage walls—interactive, high-gloss distractions in a city that couldn’t even afford proper ventilation. They always had credits for payday loans and sex. Never for infrastructure.

My gaze lingered on one of the ads—a lifelike doll posed in lace. Cyber dolls had evolved—part robotics, part AI. The newer models grew better with time and technological advancement. Brothels were everywhere now. Male, female, or somewhere in between.

Sex and money.

That’s all anyone wanted.

I was no different.