Arenas was no longer looking for answers.
He was looking for a place the system hadn’t yet calculated.
The archive had shown that almost anything could be changed.
A word.
A pause.
A voice.
A face.
A temperament.
Even the memory of a conversation.
Yet nowhere was there a button that let you switch off the system itself.
Only one setting bore a warning.
Social Optimization.
Beside it was written:
Recommended to leave active.
He pressed it.
A window opened.
It held no explanations.
Only a question.
Do you wish to disable adaptive communication?
Below, another line appeared.
Predicted compatibility: 3.02%.
He stared at the number for a long time.
Almost everyone on the station lived with ninety-nine.
He was about to choose three.
The system waited.
Then it added:
Possible consequences: long silences, conflict, miscommunication, emotional discomfort, loss of connection.
Beneath the final sentence was a single button.
Continue.
He pressed it.
The system kept running for a few more seconds.
Then, one by one, the settings began to disappear.
Voice correction.
Disabled.
Emotional synchronization.
Disabled.
Semantic tuning.
Disabled.
Adaptive response model.
Disabled.
Avatar.
Disabled.
The screen went dark for a moment.
For the first time, he saw himself without the system.
The face was tired.
Older than he’d thought.
There was more fear in the eyes than he was willing to admit to himself.
He wasn’t even certain Lina had ever seen this person.
The connection came through.
The image was blurry.
A woman sat on the other side.
Not the one he knew.
Her hair was short.
Her face more angular.
Fine lines around her eyes.
She looked at the screen for a long time.
As if checking whether something had gone wrong.
“Hi,” Arenas said quietly.
She didn’t answer.
She only looked.
His voice no longer resembled the one before.
It was no longer adjusted.
It carried fatigue.
Anxiety.
Uneven breathing.
“I…”
He stopped.
For the first time in years, he didn’t know what to say.
The system no longer offered him the next sentence.
The woman slowly shook her head.
“I’m sorry.”
Her voice was completely different.
Lower.
Less smooth.
“I don’t think this is the right person.”
Arenas felt something inside him briefly resist.
“I’m the same one.”
She was silent.
“No.”
The word came out without anger.
Without doubt.
Just…
No.
“We never used to talk like this.”
“We never talked, period.”
She furrowed her brow.
As if wanting to answer something.
As if searching for words herself, for the first time.
A few seconds passed.
Too long.
So long that Arenas almost felt the urge to fill them.
Before, the system would already have done it.
Now there was no one to.
“I don’t know what to say,” she finally said.
And fell silent.
Not because she was waiting.
Because she truly didn’t know.
It suddenly struck Arenas that this was the most beautiful sentence he’d heard in all his years on the station.
Not because it was beautifully formed.
Because, for the first time, it resolved nothing.
A notification flashed in the corner of the screen.
Connection stability: critical.
A moment later.
Mutual compatibility model no longer valid.
The woman glanced somewhere off to the side.
As if someone had called her.
Or as if she herself were searching for a reason to leave.
“I think I need to…”
She didn’t finish the sentence.
The image disappeared.
The connection was lost.
Arenas was left alone.
The screen was black.
He sat and waited.
Not because he expected her to return.
Because, for the first time, there was no notification explaining what had just happened.
The room was quiet.
Not optimized quiet.
Not meaningful quiet.
Not healing quiet.
Just quiet.
He listened to it the way one listens to a person.
And for the first time, silence didn’t feel like a flaw in the conversation.
Perhaps it was the only real beginning it had ever had.