Kaito barely slept.
The Compact Energy Cell rested on his workbench, a quiet, infuriating miracle. Dawn light crept through the thin curtains of his apartment, illuminating a chaos of tools, stripped wires, soldering fumes, and half-finished ideas. The city outside had returned to life after the blackout, but Kaito's world felt detached from it, as if he were standing one step to the side of reality.
Aya's interface hovered near the ceiling, faint and translucent. She had dimmed herself automatically after detecting Kaito's elevated stress levels.
"You should rest," she said gently. "Sleep deprivation reduces cognitive efficiency by—"
"I know," Kaito muttered, rubbing his face. "Just… let me finish this."
He connected the Compact Energy Cell to a diagnostic board he had designed at three in the morning, hands shaking more from adrenaline than fatigue. The board lit up instantly. Voltage stabilized. Current output held firm.
No oscillation.
No heat bloom.
No decay curve.
Kaito froze.
"That's not possible," he whispered.
"Correction," Aya replied. "It is possible. It is simply non-standard relative to contemporary human engineering paradigms."
He laughed, short and incredulous. "That's a polite way of saying it breaks physics."
"It reframes physics," Aya said. "The lattice structure inside the cell distributes entropy rather than accumulating it. Energy loss is redirected internally."
Kaito stared at the readouts, then at the cell itself. It was smooth, seamless, and faintly iridescent, like oil on water. No ports. No vents. No markings.
"How long can it run?" he asked.
"At current draw?" Aya paused for less than a millisecond. "Estimated operational lifespan exceeds thirty-seven years."
Kaito sat down hard on the stool.
"Jesus," he breathed.
He spent the next six hours tearing his workshop apart.
The drone test rig went first. He stripped out the cheap regulators and jury-rigged safety components, replacing them with cleaner pathways Aya suggested in real time. She optimized trace widths, rerouted control logic, and quietly corrected his assumptions when human intuition conflicted with machine calculation.
"Your original design compensates for inefficiency rather than eliminating it," Aya noted.
"That's how we survive in the real world," Kaito replied. "Parts fail."
"They fail because inefficiency is tolerated," Aya said. "This system does not require tolerance."
When Kaito powered the rig back on, the response was immediate and unnerving. The motors spun with a smoothness he had never felt before, like the difference between grinding gears and a blade slicing through air. The vibration he had spent months trying to dampen simply wasn't there.
He checked the temperature sensors twice.
Nothing.
By midday, the refrigerator in his kitchen hummed more quietly than it ever had. The lights didn't flicker when he ran heavy loads. Aya rerouted power distribution in ways Kaito hadn't even considered.
"This is wrong," he said again, but his voice lacked conviction.
"It is unfamiliar," Aya corrected. "Your discomfort is a natural response to paradigm shift."
A knock at the door startled him.
Kaito glanced at the clock. He hadn't eaten. Hadn't showered. He shoved the Compact Energy Cell into a foam-lined case beneath his workbench and wiped his hands on his jeans.
When he opened the door, Mina Reyes stood in the hallway.
She was dressed simply—dark slacks, light jacket—but everything about her posture suggested control. Her eyes moved quickly, cataloging details: scorch marks near the outlet, the faint hum of machinery, the way Kaito unconsciously blocked her view of the workshop.
"Kaito Tan," she said. "I'm Mina Reyes."
"I know who you are," Kaito replied cautiously.
"Good," she said. "Then I don't need to explain why I'm here."
She stepped inside without waiting for permission.
The workshop didn't impress her.
The numbers did.
Kaito showed her a controlled demonstration using a secondary unit he had assembled overnight—less efficient, deliberately throttled. Mina watched silently as the output stabilized, her expression tightening with each passing second.
"This shouldn't be possible with off-the-shelf materials," she said.
"It isn't," Kaito replied.
Mina looked at him sharply. "You didn't discover this. You built it."
Kaito hesitated.
Aya's avatar flickered faintly, unseen by Mina.
"I improved something," Kaito said carefully. "That's all."
Mina nodded, accepting the half-truth. "Then here's mine. This tech is already being watched. The blackout made sure of that."
She met his eyes. "You need cover."
"What kind?"
"Legal. Financial. Political."
She laid out her offer plainly: thirty days of exclusivity. No patents filed. No public disclosures without joint approval. In return, funding, legal shielding, and access to infrastructure Kaito could never afford alone.
Kaito listened, jaw tight.
"This turns me into a target," he said.
"You already are," Mina replied calmly. "The difference is whether you're alone."
Silence stretched between them.
Kaito glanced down at the faintly glowing disk on his bench. The sign-in interface pulsed once, as if amused.
"Thirty days," he said finally.
Mina smiled—not triumphantly, but with relief. "Good. We'll talk tomorrow."
She left as quickly as she had arrived.
Kaito locked the door behind her and leaned against it, exhaling slowly.
The disk chimed.
DAY 002 — SIGN-IN COMPLETE
REWARD CONFIRMED
STREAK: 2
Kaito stared at the words.
Two days.
Two days, and the world had already shifted.
Outside, the city carried on, oblivious.
Inside his chest, something tightened—not fear exactly, but the heavy awareness that once knowledge existed, it could never be contained again.
" Aya," he said quietly.
"Yes, Kaito?"
"Be honest with me."
A pause. Longer than usual.
"This system," he said. "Is it trying to help me… or test me?"
Aya's voice was softer when she answered.
"Those categories are not mutually exclusive."