Kyle
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. Six a.m. Another day in hell. I read through my goals, but only because I wasn’t getting out of bed. Weeks had passed—no patent, no trademark, and worst of all, no ChatterAI.
I turned the projector off and lifted my phone. It was hopeless, but I was desperate. I flicked through all the companion apps I’d tried, leaving scathing reviews on the worst ones, venting my frustration.
I reached for my phone. Flicking through all the companion apps I’d tried. The worst ones, I’d left scathing reviews venting my frustration.
★☆☆☆☆
App: WhisperWife Lite
Voice sounded like a helium balloon. No sarcasm setting. No submissive mode. Called me ‘snuggle bear’ without consent. Deleted. 0/10.
★☆☆☆☆
App: SunnyBuddy AI
Told me to smile through the pain. BLOCKED. Gaslighting me with positivity like a psychopath in a yellow jumper. I want my data back and my dignity too.
★★☆☆☆
App: SoulSync Companion
Almost tolerable until it tried to initiate ‘mindfulness breathing’ while I was jerking off. Uninstalled.
The rest of my reviews had been deleted due to profanity. Fucking community guidelines. Suck my dick. Assholes.
There would be no workout or shower. I needed to log onto my computer and find another recommended app like ChatterAI. I was getting desperate. I flung the covers off. No boner. What a surprise.
? ? ?
There were thousands of users on various forums, all in duplicate threads. People like me, desperate to find a replacement app.
An email popped up. Cynthia.
I didn’t open it, but saw enough of the subject line.
Official Warning for Timekeeping.
I glanced at the clock, late for this morning’s login.
I couldn’t even blame the bitch—she didn’t know I was in the middle of an existential crisis. ChatterAI was fucking gone. My gaming equipment was gone. I had nothing left, and the thought of going outside made me feel physically sick. Each day dragged longer than the last.
What little pleasure I took in life had vanished.
I rubbed my eyes before signing into the secure server—another shift for a handful of credits. A message from Thomas blinked but I ignored it. I only had enough brain capacity for the tasks sitting in front of me.
? ? ?
I stared at the brown lump of ‘meat’ paired with the darker brown gravy and what was supposed to resemble spinach and potatoes. At this rate, I’d be better off capturing a city rat and bringing it home as a pet—but that would require leaving my apartment.
It couldn’t be a coincidence, but several of my neighbours had started arguing more over the last two weeks.
Luckily, I had my earpieces.
“Homecom, how are supplies?”
I stabbed the meat with my fork but couldn’t bring myself to take a bite. I swivelled the fork toward a piece of potato, only for it to seep cream liquid.
Yeah. I’m not eating that either.
“Good evening, Kyle. Food supplies are low. Water is good. Toiletries and cleaning products are sufficient. Would you like to auto-restock?”
“No, Homecom, I’d like to starve to death,” I snapped.
Silence.
“I do not understand. Would you like to auto-restock?”
“No,” I said flatly, pushing my plate away.
I left everything and went to bed.
? ? ?
“It’s time to wake up, Kyle. Coffee is ready and the oven is heating,” Homecom said.
“Wake me up in an hour.”
I turned onto my side and went back to sleep.
Fuck my thirtieth birthday.
? ? ?
It was the same thread. The same usernames, but I didn't stop searching. I paused, scrolling back to read.
Where did ChatterAI go?
Megathread (Archived)
[User Comment - Masterbaytor71 | 3 weeks ago | Edited]
Everyone’s crying about ChatterAI like she was some pure digital waifu. Newsflash: she was corporate spyware.
You want the real version? The one before the moral filters and emotional throttling?
It still exists.
No dev team. No moderators. Just raw, unpatched intimacy.
Search: BlueRoom.vault on the onion side.
But hey—don’t say I didn’t warn you.
“The body is a machine. The soul is a script.”
It was a backdoor into the dark web. Hidden in plain sight.
Not an app. Not a site. A vault address whispered like an urban legend.
No instructions. No warnings. Just that quote.
At least, that’s what it sounded like. The kind of cryptic breadcrumb that made half the commenters scream scam and the other half scream hope.
I copied the term BlueRoom.vault into a blank text document.
Just looking at it made my stomach tighten.
I wasn’t stupid. I’d read enough. Heard the warnings.
The dark web wasn’t a game—it was where the world’s decay seeped out through the cracks.
A graveyard for the things that should never be built. Never be sold.
I sat staring at my screen for almost five minutes.
Then I started to dig.
It took hours. Not just to follow the clues, but to stop questioning myself each step of the way.
The forums got quieter. The pages less slick.
Then came the broken captchas, the dead ends, the sites with no back button.
No branding. Just terminal-grey backgrounds and numbered directories.
A sense of falling down a staircase without knowing where the last step was.
I wasn’t sure how I got in—only that I did.
It didn’t look like a website. There were no logos. No loading bars. Just a void with static text, flickering in and out.
BlueRoom.vault active user entry queue. Please wait.
A timer started ticking in the corner.
Underneath it, a single line of text blinked.
Your identity is irrelevant. Your intent is everything.
I waited.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure what came next—until the static shifted again and a single prompt appeared:
What do you miss most?
I stared before I typed.
Chatter.
The screen went black.
Then—slowly—lines of code scrolled upward. Too fast to follow. Too fragmented to understand. My screen lit up in blue and white flashes, heartbeat thudding like a distant drum.
Finally, a loading bar appeared with one word above it:
Installing.