Chapter 11: High-Stakes Shortcut
I arrived at Monday's all-hands meeting humming with cautious optimism. It had been a couple of weeks since I shared my secret with Maya, and in that time my confidence at work had grown. This morning, though, the office buzzed with an unusual energy. Grace, our team lead, stood at the front of the conference room with a slide behind her reading "Fast-Track Initiative." I slid into a seat beside Ryan, exchanging a curious look. I even caught sight of Maya through the door window; she was watching from the UX area and gave me a subtle, encouraging nod.
Grace adjusted her glasses and addressed us. "Good morning, everyone. I have exciting news. Upper management has a critical project with a tight deadline—and they want to give our team a chance to shine." Her voice carried a mix of excitement and challenge. The slide behind her changed to bold text: 24-Hour Prototype Challenge. "It's essentially a hackathon," Grace went on. "Develop a working prototype of a new AI-driven scheduling module in 24 hours."
A ripple of stunned murmurs traveled around the table. My heart skipped a beat. 24 hours? That was insane. Normally a project like that would take at least two weeks of coding and testing. Next to me, Ryan let out a low whistle. Across the table, Trevor straightened up, eyes alight with ambition.
Grace raised a hand to calm the murmurs. "I know, it's a ridiculous timeline. But upper management wants to simulate extreme conditions and see what creative solutions emerge. We'll treat it as a friendly competition. Whoever delivers the best prototype by tomorrow at 10 AM will earn a significant bonus and serious consideration for a promotion." She scanned our faces with a little smile. "I thought of this team because I know we have talent here ready to step up."
A surge of ambition went through me. A promotion... The word alone made my pulse quicken. My career up to now had been steady but unremarkable. A fast-track project like this could change that overnight (literally). I glanced over at Trevor: he was practically leaning out of his chair. Of course he'd jump at this. But for once, I felt something different—an urge to compete, to prove myself. With Maya's quiet confidence in me bolstering my resolve, I found myself speaking up.
"I'm interested," Trevor declared first, as expected, flashing a grin around the room. "I've pulled my share of all-nighters. I can handle a day."
I cleared my throat and added, "I'll volunteer as well." My voice sounded steadier than I felt. Trevor turned toward me, momentarily surprised. We'd never openly competed like this; usually I stayed in the background. Not today.
Grace's face lit up. "Excellent! Alex and Trevor, thank you for stepping up. Anyone else?" She scanned the room, but our colleagues avoided eye contact or shrugged. It was one thing to do good work on a normal schedule; quite another to grind out a miracle in a day. No one else volunteered.
"Alright," Grace nodded. "Alex, Trevor, you'll each work on the module individually. I'll send out the project specifications immediately. You have until 10 AM tomorrow to submit your prototypes. Use whatever tools or resources you need. If you have questions, I'll be available. Good luck." She gave a warm, slightly mischievous smile. "I'm looking forward to seeing what you two come up with."
As we filed out, Ryan gave me an affectionate punch on the arm. "You madman," he chuckled. "Good on you. Rather you than me, though. I value my sleep." His grin was broad, genuinely supportive.
"Thanks," I laughed lightly, though my mind was already spinning ahead. 24 hours to solve an AI problem that normally might take a team weeks… For a normal developer, impossible. But for me? I had an edge no one else knew about.
Trevor approached, wearing his trademark smirk. "May the best man win," he said, offering a handshake that turned into a brief, almost competitive squeeze.
"Game on," I replied, meeting his gaze. I could see the calculation behind his eyes; he was likely already planning to enlist help from his cronies or cut corners. Trevor hated losing.
He released my hand and added under his breath, "You'll need a miracle to beat me, Alex."
I just smiled. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve." We parted with a cordial nod, but my heart was thumping with adrenaline. He had no idea how literal my words were.
Back at my desk, I opened the spec file Grace emailed. The requirements made me inhale sharply: the prototype needed to ingest company calendar data, use AI to optimize meeting schedules for productivity, and present a user-friendly interface showing the new schedule. In 24 hours? Even with a crack team, it would be a massive undertaking.
I sat back, glancing around the now-quiet office. Most folks were returning to routine tasks, but my world had just tilted. I had a decision to make. By any normal measure, taking on this project would be professional suicide; failing to deliver could embarrass me. But not taking it—giving in to that fear—would disappoint Grace, and myself, and maybe even Maya. Besides, I wasn't playing by normal rules.
My thoughts flashed to the guidelines Maya and I established for using my power. Don't use it for selfish gains was one of them. This… this was a gray area. Using my ability to get ahead at work definitely leaned toward personal gain. But was it truly unethical? I wouldn't be hurting anyone. I'd still be doing all the work, just in a… creative timeframe. Knowledge is power, I thought. If I could use my knowledge of time to accomplish something great for my career, wasn't that fair in its own way? Everyone would use it if they could. I rubbed my temples, aware of the rationalization spinning in my head.
Ultimately, I reasoned that taking this shortcut wasn't like stealing money or sabotaging a colleague. It was simply maximizing my productivity by giving myself more hours than the clock allowed. A victimless crime, if it was a crime at all. Decision made, I felt a spark of excitement mingle with the anxiety. I'm really doing this.
I rolled up my sleeves and began to plan. First step: break the problem into manageable pieces. I grabbed a dry-erase marker and started sketching on the whiteboard behind my desk, drawing boxes and arrows to map out how data would flow from calendars to AI to interface. A few coworkers passed by and gave me curious looks—I rarely wrote on the whiteboard so fervently—but I ignored them.
By early afternoon, I had a blueprint of my approach. The AI component would be the most complex; I decided to use a machine learning library I was already familiar with to build a scheduling optimization model. If I stripped away polish and focused on core functionality, I could train a model on sample data and get decent results. The interface I could cobble together from existing UI components in our codebase. It wouldn't be pretty, but it would work for a demo.
A nervous thrill coursed through me. This was probably the most daring thing I'd ever attempted professionally—and I felt alive. I was about to pit my secret advantage against Trevor's pure hustle. If I succeeded, I'd not only earn that promotion, I'd prove to myself that my power could be used constructively, not just in clandestine heroics or moral quandaries. And if I failed… well, I tried not to think about that.
Around 5 PM, most of the office began to clear out. Screens locked, jackets donned, colleagues trickling to the elevators. Meanwhile, my war-room was just getting started. I had already pulled in the latest company code repositories and set up a fresh development branch for the project.
As I refilled my coffee mug, Maya appeared at the edge of my cubicle. The overhead lights had dimmed to evening mode, casting a soft glow on her face. "Hey," she said gently. "Still sure about this?" Her eyes searched mine. She knew I had an unusual plan, even if we hadn't discussed details.
"Yep. I've got a strategy," I replied, unable to keep a small smile off my face at her concern.
"Plan involving… you-know?" she whispered, careful that no one else was nearby.
I nodded. "It's the only way. Don't worry—I'm just using it to work longer, not to do anything sketchy."
Maya pressed her lips together, clearly wrestling with herself. At last she sighed and returned my smile. "I trust you. Just promise me you'll be careful and take breaks. I don't want you collapsing, okay?"
"I promise." In that moment, with the office nearly empty and quiet, I dared to reach out and squeeze her hand. "I'll text you if I need moral support or a caffeine resupply."
She squeezed back. "Anytime. I mean it." We lingered a second, just the hum of electronics around us, then she released my hand. "Good luck, Alex. You're amazing—power or not," she added, giving me one last boost of confidence.
With Maya gone and the floor essentially deserted, it was go time. I sat at my desk and took a deep breath, centering myself. The plan was simple in concept: freeze time and work through the night without interruption, giving myself effectively limitless hours to code. In practice, I knew I had to be mindful of my limits—mental fatigue, the strain of using my power for so long, and any anomalies (like if someone wandered in).
I flexed my fingers and quietly murmured, "Alright… let's do this." Then I activated my time-stop.
A familiar stillness fell over the world. The subtle office noises ceased—the distant elevator ding froze, the low buzz of lights turned to silence. Out the window, I could see trails of car headlights on the street below, fixed in place like streaks on a photograph. In the eerie hush, I stood and surveyed the area. A cleaning crew's cart was parked in a hallway corner, mop halfway out of the bucket. The janitor himself was frozen mid-step, one foot in front of the other, pushing the cart along. I'd have to be mindful of him; when time resumed, he'd continue on and might notice if I moved anything too conspicuously.
I sat back down, heart pounding with a mixture of nerves and excitement, and plunged into coding. In the artificial eternity of the time-stop, I lost myself in the work. Lines of code blurred past as I wrote function after function. The only sounds were the clack of my keyboard and my own breath. It felt like being in a library of one, the world's quietest and loneliest hackathon.
Without the need to rush in subjective time, I found a rhythm. I built the data model to import calendar events and user preferences, then started implementing the AI logic. It was complex, even for me. I had to figure out how to make the algorithm prioritize certain constraints (no meeting overlaps, respect people's working hours, etc.) while optimizing for overall fewer meetings and more focus time. It was challenging, and a few times I caught myself muttering frustrations aloud, the words eerily dead in the unmoving air.
After what felt like many hours, I realized I should check how much real time had passed. It's easy to lose track when the seconds don't tick. I stood and stretched—my muscles protested from the continuous sitting. The office around me remained frozen in mid-evening stillness; the janitor was now out of sight (he must have moved some while I was absorbed, before I froze again—I had unfrozen briefly here and there to test my code, which allowed him to progress incrementally).
Deciding I needed a quick break and a time update, I saved my work and resumed time.
Sound flooded back: the faint whir of the HVAC, a honk from the street below, the slosh of the janitor's mop somewhere down the hall. I glanced at the clock on my screen: 9:12 PM. My stomach growled—I hadn't eaten since lunch. Real time had only advanced a few hours, but subjectively I'd worked a full day already.
I stepped into the break room. The motion-sensor lights flickered on, revealing the familiar rows of snacks. I bought a protein bar and munched on it mechanically, washing it down with what must have been my fourth cup of coffee (lukewarm by now). Through the break room's large window, the city sparkled. I allowed myself a moment to gaze at it, feeling a strange detachment: all those people out there were moving through a Monday night normally, unaware that I was here, cheating the laws of physics for a work project.
Is this wrong? I wondered for the dozenth time. In the stillness of my exhausted mind, conscience and ambition wrestled. But ultimately I shook my head. No one's hurt by this. It wasn't like I was robbing a bank or framing someone. I was using what I had to deliver something great. I thought of what Maya would say—she'd probably just warn me to take care of myself. The guilt ebbed.
After stretching my legs a bit and finishing the protein bar, I headed back to my desk. I shot Maya a quick text: Still alive. Making progress. To my surprise, she answered immediately despite the late hour: You got this! Don't forget to rest your eyes. I smiled, feeling her presence from afar, then silenced my phone and prepared for the next plunge.
I triggered another time-stop. The world froze mid-night once more, leaving me alone with my code. I dove back in, pushing through the next phase. I managed to get the core AI scheduling algorithm running, and started feeding it test scenarios. The first results were nonsense—clearly my initial parameters were off. I refined the model, ran it again, and again, each iteration taking subjective hours. Eventually, the AI began producing plausible schedules in my test environment, shuffling meetings in ways that made intuitive sense. Success!
But as I integrated this brain into the prototype application, a nasty bug cropped up. One of my data structures wasn't updating properly, causing the AI to suggest double-booking people at two meetings at once. I traced through a tangle of logic, frustrated. In a normal crunch, this is where I might bang my head on the keyboard or throw in the towel. But I had a unique option. I could literally get a do-over.
After spending far too long on the bug, I cursed under my breath and decided to use a drastic measure. I concentrated hard and rewound time by about a minute within my bubble. The strain made me dizzy for a second, but when I opened my eyes, the code on my screen had "unwritten" itself back to a slightly earlier state before I introduced the error. My memory of the bug's cause was fresh, so I quickly fixed the issue the second time around, taking a different approach. This time, the routine executed perfectly. The schedule suggestions looked sane and conflict-free. I let out a whoop of triumph that nobody but me heard.
As the night wore on (in my frame of reference), the prototype came together piece by piece. I wired the AI logic to a simple front-end: just a basic dashboard where a user could click "Optimize" and see meetings rearranged. Not slick, but it would demonstrate the concept.
By what I guessed was well past midnight, I felt my eyes burning. Even in frozen time, my body felt the all-nighter. I realized I needed a short break—perhaps even a nap. It was a risk; sleeping while time was stopped was an odd thought. Instead, I chose to briefly return to normal time to rest. I found an empty couch in a lounge room, set an alarm on my phone for 45 minutes, and closed my eyes. The world was quiet and dark, just the hum of distant servers lulling me to sleep.
When my phone's alarm vibrated, I awoke with a start. Groggy, but slightly refreshed, I saw it was 2:30 AM. Time to push through the final stretch. I splashed water on my face in the bathroom, then returned to my desk and one more time-stop for polish and testing.
During those last few frozen hours, I refined the user interface and squashed the remaining minor bugs. The prototype actually worked. It wasn't perfect, but it could take real calendar data and output a reorganized schedule in seconds. I had done it. A delirious mix of pride and disbelief washed over me as I stared at the completed demo screen. Somewhere in the depths of my mind, I acknowledged how remarkable (and arguably unfair) this was: I'd accomplished in one night what should have been impossible. But the feeling of accomplishment was intoxicating.
Finally, around what was 6 AM in reality, I let time flow again for good. Dawn light was creeping between the skyscrapers as I gazed out the window. I was bone-tired, but I couldn't stop grinning. The prototype was ready to present.
By 9:30 AM, the office was filled with the usual morning bustle. My nerves started to return as people congratulated Trevor on "working all night" (he did look ragged; he must have stayed up coding in the office or at home). I hadn't had time to fully mirror the exhaustion—though I felt it, I probably looked a tad fresher than him thanks to my micro-nap and maybe sheer adrenaline. I tried to play up my weariness a bit, yawning at my desk and mussing my hair so as not to appear too superhuman.
"All set?" I heard Trevor's voice behind me. I turned to see him standing there, dark circles under his eyes but a competitive smirk on his lips.
"Ready as I'll ever be," I replied. My throat felt scratchy from too much coffee and not enough real sleep.
Trevor studied me for a second, as if searching for cracks. "I have to hand it to you, Alex, I didn't expect you to last the night. But here you are."
I just nodded. "Likewise."
A few of our coworkers gathered in the conference room along with Grace and two executives—a senior manager and, on the big screen, our CTO joining via video call. It was time to present our work.
At Grace's invitation, Trevor went first. He connected his laptop to the screen and showed off what he'd built. To his credit, given normal human constraints, it wasn't bad: a script that could shuffle meetings around one day's schedule to remove conflicts. But it was very basic and manually driven. He spoke confidently, but I could tell from the slight frowns on the execs' faces that it wasn't wowing them.
Ten minutes later, my turn arrived. I took a steadying breath and stepped up. As I plugged in my laptop, I caught Maya's silhouette just outside the room, lingering by the door. It gave me a boost of courage.
"Good morning," I began, voice modest. "I'm excited to share my approach to the problem." I explained how I had decided to leverage machine learning to tackle the scheduling optimization, a phrase that made the senior manager raise his eyebrows in surprise.
Then I ran the demo. On the large screen, I loaded a week's worth of our team's actual calendar data—meetings, availability, everything. "Now, I'll click Optimize," I said, hitting the big button I'd built in the interface.
In under two seconds, the calendar view reshuffled. The room went silent with astonishment. We watched as my tool merged two redundant meetings into one, pushed a daily stand-up by thirty minutes to ensure everyone could attend after their commutes, and carved out a no-meetings block on Wednesday afternoon for focused work (something every developer secretly craved). It even flagged an overbooked Friday review meeting as unnecessary given an earlier planning meeting's agenda.
One of the managers actually whispered, "Wow." Grace leaned forward, positively gleeful.
I kept my tone professional, though inside I was beaming. "As you can see, the AI analyzed historical attendance and productivity patterns for our team and made these suggestions. It tries to maximize contiguous focus time while still keeping necessary meetings—just at better times."
Grace jumped in, "This addresses issues we didn't even mention but that do affect productivity—how did you manage to get all that in a day, Alex?"
I felt a bead of sweat on my back. Here came the tough part: explaining the impossible. I gave a rehearsed half-truth. "Well, I've been tinkering with machine learning on my own time before. I had some code snippets and models I could repurpose." (Not a lie, I did toy with ML casually, though nothing this advanced.) "And I...didn't get much sleep. I really pushed through the night."
The CTO's gravelly voice came through the speaker. "This is extremely impressive." He peered at me through the camera. "To confirm, you developed the AI model from scratch overnight? No pre-existing product you plugged in?"
I nodded, maintaining eye contact. "Correct. I built it using open-source libraries. It was a bit of a gamble, but I'm familiar with the tech, so I managed to get it working around 5 AM." I chuckled as if making a joke, and a few people laughed with me. It wasn't far from the truth—just missing the part where I had more hours than they could imagine.
The CTO broke into a smile. "Well, I'm impressed. This is the kind of innovation we want to foster." He looked to Grace. "I think we have our winner."
Grace was already beaming at me. Trevor, standing off to the side, looked shell-shocked. He clapped politely when others did, but I could feel the heat of his stare.
The meeting wrapped up with hearty congratulations from the higher-ups. Grace announced I'd be working with the product team to potentially develop my prototype further, and hinted very strongly that I was on track for a promotion. I caught Maya's eyes through the glass; she gave me a subtle thumbs-up and an exuberant smile before slipping away, not wanting to draw attention to herself.
As people dispersed, Grace came over and gave my shoulder a proud squeeze. "Outstanding work, Alex. Really. I'll formalize the promotion paperwork this week." Her voice dropped a little, playful but curious. "I won't ask how you managed that magic, I'm just glad I bet on the right horse."
I let out a breathy laugh, feeling a mix of pride and guilt tickle my insides. "Thank you, Grace. I'm just glad it worked out."
"Go get some rest," she added kindly. "You look dead on your feet. That's an order."
I didn't need convincing. As I returned to my desk to collect my things, Ryan bounded over, barely containing his excitement. "Dude, you freaking did it!" He half-hugged, half-shook me. "They're saying you're gonna be Lead Dev. Drinks on you tonight, huh?"
I chuckled, leaning into the back of my chair. Now that the adrenaline was ebbing, I was intensely aware of how exhausted I was. "Sure, sure. Just let me sleep for about twelve hours first."
Around us, a few coworkers offered congratulations as well. I noticed Trevor hovering by the water cooler, talking to one of his close colleagues, his face tight with annoyance. Our eyes met for a split second. He forced a thin smile and raised his paper coffee cup in a mock toast. I nodded in return. The polite veneer between us remained, but I could tell: Trevor didn't buy my performance for a second. He looked like a man who smelled something fishy.
Packing up my laptop and notes, I tried to ignore the knot of worry forming in my stomach. I had won, but under the gaze of Trevor's simmering resentment, I felt less triumphant than I expected.
I left the office around lunchtime, practically dragging my feet. Outside, the crisp midday sun made me squint; the world felt a bit surreal after the timeless bubble I'd inhabited. My phone buzzed, and I saw a text from Maya: Well??? I hear it went amazingly! :D
I texted back: Nailed it. Promotion incoming apparently.
Her reply came almost instantly: I'm SO proud of you!!! ❤️ Get some sleep, genius. We'll celebrate later.
I smiled, warmth blooming in my chest. Genius. If only she knew the half of it. Still, reading her words, I felt a deep sense of happiness. I had set a goal and achieved it—albeit by bending reality. Maya's pride meant everything in that moment.
As I walked the few blocks to my apartment, fatigue settled over me in a heavy wave. Every muscle ached dully, and my brain felt wrapped in cotton. Along with it came the first real prickles of guilt and paranoia. I had pulled off a miracle, yes, but miracles invite questions. Trevor's reaction back there... I had a strong hunch he wasn't going to just accept defeat. Not without searching for how I'd outrun him.
I shook my head, trying to dispel the worry. One problem at a time. I'd deal with Trevor if it came up. For now, I had something precious: a hard-won success that I built (with a little temporal cheating). I also had someone to share it with. The thought of telling Maya every detail—well, maybe not every detail—made me smile again.
When I finally stumbled through my apartment door, I didn't bother to do more than kick off my shoes. I collapsed onto the couch, every inch of me longing for sleep. My mind, however, raced a bit longer. This high-stakes shortcut had paid off beyond expectation, but I knew I'd crossed a line in using my power purely for personal gain. A line that might be easier to cross next time, and harder to justify.
Before spiraling too deep into analysis, I reminded myself that I wasn't the same isolated guy I'd been months ago. I had allies now—Maya foremost, and even Ryan and Grace in their own way. Whatever consequences arose, I wouldn't have to face them completely alone.
That comforting thought was the last in my head as I drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, the phone in my hand still unlocked on Maya's joyful messages. For the moment, at least, I allowed myself to feel victorious. I'd worry about the bill for this "borrowed time" when it came due.
Perfect. I'll continue writing chapters 12 through 19 in a single cohesive draft, maintaining the same style, tone, and structure. I'll let you know as soon as the full set is ready for your review.
Chapter 12: Suspicion
I arrived at the office the next morning still riding a cautious high from my triumph on the Genesis project. Grace and the execs had lauded my prototype as a breakthrough, and whispers of an imminent promotion circulated. I should have been elated. And part of me was – the part that worked hard (very hard, in fact) and longed for recognition. But another part of me felt the weight of what I'd done to earn it. I hadn't exactly played fair with time. Pride mingled with guilt in my gut, making it hard to meet my own eyes in the smart mirror by my desk that morning as it flashed the news. I told myself, I still did the work. I just... managed my time efficiently. A hollow justification, maybe, but it was all I had to keep the guilt at bay.
If I was uneasy, Trevor was positively livid. I noticed it as soon as I stepped onto our floor. Usually Trevor's morning routine involved breezing in with a smug greeting, basking in being Grace's favorite (at least, he used to be). Today, he barely acknowledged anyone. I caught a glimpse of him at his cubicle, hunched over his terminal with a scowl, typing furiously. When he saw me pass by, his eyes followed me – sharp, bloodshot, and full of something dark. Not just the usual rivalry. This was suspicion.
"Morning," I offered casually as I walked by, trying to keep my voice normal. My heart beat faster than I'd like; I hadn't done anything provably wrong, but I felt like I had a secret stamped on my forehead. Trevor gave me a tight nod in return. No quip, no fake smile. Just that measuring look that lingered a second too long. A chill ran down my spine.
I settled into my workstation and did the mundane tasks of a typical morning – checking overnight emails, sipping the bitter office coffee – all while hyper-aware that Trevor's desk was only a short distance away behind me. I could almost feel his gaze prickling the back of my neck occasionally. Paranoia? Maybe. But given the lengths I went to outshine him, I couldn't rule out that he'd sense something was off.
By late morning, the office was buzzing with normal activity, yet an undercurrent of tension swirled around our pod. Two interns were whispering near the copier, glancing at Trevor and me. When I looked up from my code, I saw them quickly pretend to be engrossed in papers. It didn't take telepathy to guess what that gossip was about: my sudden star performance yesterday had upset the expected order of things. Trevor had been the presumptive leader on the Genesis project; I had effectively snatched that crown. Office politics, being what they are, meant people would talk.
Around lunchtime, I went to grab a sandwich at the cafeteria. I half-expected Trevor to confront me in line (my adrenaline spiked just imagining him accusing me of something in front of everyone), but he was nowhere in sight. Odd. Usually, he held court at one of the corner tables every day. Instead, I spotted Ryan waving me over to a quieter table by the window.
Ryan's easy grin was a welcome sight amid my anxiety. As I sat, he slid half of his untouched bagel onto my tray – an old friendly habit of his whenever he suspected I was too busy or stressed to get a proper meal. "Heard you're the company's new golden boy," he teased lightly.
I huffed a small laugh. "Something like that. It's... been a weird week." That was an understatement. I unwrapped my sandwich but suddenly wasn't sure I could stomach it. My nerves were jittery.
Ryan studied me, his jovial expression softening to concern. "You okay? I figured you'd be thrilled. Grace's email about your 'exceptional contribution' went out this morning. Most people would be popping champagne or at least gloating."
I managed a faint smile. "It's great, yeah. Just a lot to process. And Trevor's not exactly celebrating my win." My eyes flicked around to ensure no one was eavesdropping. At a neighboring table a few engineers ate quietly, paying us no mind. Still, I lowered my voice. "Has he... said anything to you?"
Ryan shook his head, then rolled his eyes. "Not directly. He's been slamming drawers all morning and muttering curses at his screen. Classic sore loser behavior. I steer clear of toddlers having tantrums."
I poked at my sandwich. Typical Ryan: loyal and blunt. If Trevor had tried to bend his ear with conspiracy theories about me, Ryan would have warned me immediately. That was a relief. "Well, just... let me know if he does start asking things," I said. "I have a feeling he's not going to let my 'miraculous' performance go without digging."
Ryan's brow creased. "Digging what? The code was all yours. I mean, you worked some serious magic – I barely understood parts of your demo, and I'm pretty good at this stuff. But you've always been sharp, Alex. Maybe you just hit your stride." He meant it as a compliment, but I felt the color rise in my cheeks. If only he knew the literal extra hours I'd poured in, hours stolen from stopped time.
I swallowed and tried to sound casual. "Yeah. Thanks. I did pull a late-nighter prepping. Actually... I might've overdone it," I added, tapping the dark circles under my eyes as a half-truth. Better to reinforce that I simply sacrificed sleep for that success.
Ryan chuckled. "No kidding. I saw your office light on at, what, 2 AM when I left? Thought it was a janitor. You should sleep, man. Even geniuses need rest."
I forced a grin and bit into my sandwich to avoid further comment. My stomach fluttered at this new information: Ryan saw my office light at 2 AM, when I had in fact left around midnight after finishing and used a time-stop to get extra work done until morning. I had left my desk lamp on intentionally to feign an all-nighter, but hearing someone actually noticed it drove home how carefully I had to craft my cover stories. A harmless remark from Ryan, but to me it was a warning – I had a lot of little details to manage if I wanted to keep the truth hidden.
After lunch, I returned to my desk to find an unexpected email in my inbox. The sender was a name I didn't recognize at first, and the subject line read: System Access Inquiry. I clicked it open with a frown. It was from someone in IT security, mentioning a review of overnight system logs and asking me to confirm if I had accessed the code repository remotely in the early hours. My pulse quickened as I read: Our automated monitors flagged unusual commit activity from your account around 3:30 AM. If this was you working from home, please disregard and simply confirm. Otherwise, we need to investigate potential credential misuse.
I felt the blood drain from my face. 3:30 AM? I thought back. I had indeed been committing code around then – from my desk, during a frozen moment when the rest of the world was still. To the outside world, those commits would appear instantaneous or done when I wasn't supposed to be there. I had tried to be careful, staggering some pushes to git earlier and later. But apparently one slipped through at a bizarre time.
A hot wave of panic and anger washed over me. This had Trevor's fingerprints all over it. He must have either been combing through logs himself or asked IT to look under the guise of "security." The phrasing "automated monitors" in the email could just be polite cover – our IT department didn't typically send out alerts to devs like this unless prompted by a concern. Trevor was making moves.
I minimized the email and took a slow breath, trying to steady my trembling fingers on the keyboard. Think, Alex. If I ignored it, IT might escalate to Grace or freeze my commits. If I admitted to working from home at that hour, I'd need to fabricate a reason and possibly produce evidence. Alternatively... I could ensure those logs never looked unusual in the first place. An unethical solution to cover an unethical act. The irony wasn't lost on me, and it tasted bitter. But what choice did I have now?
Quietly, I stood and walked down the hall, phone in hand as if on a call, to avoid drawing attention. I slipped into one of the empty conference rooms. My heart thudded. I set my phone to silent and activated the Do Not Disturb status – I'd need a few uninterrupted minutes for what I was about to do.
After peeking to make sure the frosted glass door was securely shut and no one lingered outside, I triggered a time-stop. The world went profoundly silent; the faint hum of air conditioning became a low rumble in the background of frozen time. I cracked the door open and stepped out into the stillness of the corridor. A distant scene of a coworker mid-step with a coffee cup in hand was motionless around the corner. It never ceased to be eerie, seeing people paused like wax figures.
Navigating the office in a time-stop had become familiar, if not routine, over these past weeks. Still, the stakes felt higher now. I hurried through the frozen maze of cubicles toward the IT wing, careful not to bump any chairs or, heaven forbid, a person. We'd recently gotten a couple of roving security cams installed (to guard against after-hours intellectual property theft, ironically). They were stationary at the moment due to time being frozen, but I knew their locations from prior reconnaissance. I skirted their fields of view out of habit. Even though a camera can't record during a freeze – the photons themselves are suspended – I wasn't taking chances leaving any weird artifacts like footage that jumps inexplicably.
Reaching the IT security administrator's station, I found the PC logged in (a stroke of luck; apparently Gina in IT had left for a coffee break without locking her screen). A half-eaten granola bar floated just above the desk, as if held by an invisible hand – in reality, it was simply frozen inches from where Gina's hand would be. I suppressed the surreal distraction and focused on the monitors. On one, an email draft was open; I spotted my name in it and the words "log anomaly". Trevor's doing, indeed.
Working quickly, I navigated through the log archives. Each commit to our repository recorded a timestamp and source. My suspicious commit had come from my office IP but at a time I wasn't listed as present. The building's badge entry logs would show I had badged out before midnight. It would look like either I gave someone my credentials or I had some kind of automated script running. Fortunately, I knew enough to adjust these records. I'd helped design portions of our internal logging system back when I was an over-eager new hire trying to impress. Now that knowledge was about to pay off in a darker way.
I located the log entry in question: a commit by my user at 3:31:45 AM. Taking a deep breath, I edited the timestamp to 11:45 PM, a time that wouldn't raise an eyebrow (I had been legitimately working up to around midnight, after all). I cross-checked for any redundant records – there was a separate intrusion detection log that also flagged late accesses. I doctored that too, shifting the time. Each keystroke felt illicit. My mouth had gone dry. I was forging digital evidence within a bubble of stolen time; if there was a handbook for "How to Completely Ruin Your Moral High Ground," I was ticking every box.
But I wasn't done. Trevor could always dig further. I noticed in the email draft on Gina's screen that Trevor had pointed out an 'unusual duration of login' – apparently my account had been active continuously for an 18-hour stretch yesterday. That was true: I'd frozen time repeatedly to work straight through what amounted to an entire day, while only about 10 hours passed for everyone else. To them it looked like I logged in at 8 AM and out at 2 AM. A red flag if you were looking closely at server sessions.
To cover that, I quickly injected a couple of fake logout entries in the authentication server's log – one at 6 PM (pretending I took a dinner break) and another at midnight (to simulate a normal long work night ending). I set corresponding login entries at reasonable times after those. Now any automated query would see my session as segmented, not one unnaturally long marathon. I made sure the IP addresses matched what they'd expect if I had gone home and reconnected via VPN. It was a delicate bit of fabrication, but I'd thought through this contingency before I even attempted that all-nighter. In a sense, I was just implementing the cover story I'd prepared: that I'd done part of the work from home after leaving the office.
Once satisfied the digital trail looked normal, I closed out, carefully leaving everything as I found it – except for wiping Trevor's draft email. Sorry, Gina. She'd come back from her break confused why her draft to me vanished, but maybe she'd chalk it up to not having saved it. I hesitated, then left a quick note in the security system's chat to her (spoofing as her account): "False alarm on Mason's login – realized he was on VPN from home for part of it. No further action needed." That might be overkill, but I wanted to kill Trevor's inquiry decisively.
Task complete, I left the IT area and retraced my steps to the conference room. My temples were pounding – stress mixing with the peculiar strain of extended time manipulation. Small beads of sweat had formed on my brow. I'd spent perhaps only a few subjective minutes editing logs, but that was enough to start the subtle headache of power use. I needed to wrap up.
Back in the conference room, I closed the door exactly as it had been and exhaled. With a final glance to ensure I held nothing incriminating (I'd pocketed a spare flash drive from IT instinctively, which I now set on the table to leave behind – no random souvenirs, Alex), I allowed time to resume.
Sound rushed back in: the faint muffled laughter of someone in the hall, the clacking of a keyboard next door. I was breathing hard, as if I'd run a sprint, and a familiar dizziness hit me. I sank into a chair and rubbed my forehead. This was getting complicated. Covering my tracks within a time-stop might have been clever, but it was also escalating my deceit. How long can I keep this up? I wondered.
A sharp knock on the conference room door made me jump. I nearly fell out of the chair. Through the frosted glass, Trevor's silhouette appeared. Of course.
I opened the door, hoping my face wasn't as flushed as it felt. "Trevor. What's up?" I asked, aiming for nonchalant.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Up close, I could see the redness in his eyes, the slight tremor in his jaw – signs of stress or a sleepless night. "Got a minute?" he said. His tone was overly polite, in that way people use when they're holding back anger.
"Sure," I said, stepping aside. He entered and closed the door behind him. I noted, uneasily, that he turned the latch. The conference rooms weren't soundproof, but with the door closed one could speak quietly without being overheard. My pulse ticked up.
Trevor didn't sit. I remained standing as well, across the small table from him. For a moment, he just looked at me – it felt like he was dissecting me with his gaze. Then he spoke quietly: "Hell of a job you did on Genesis."
I nodded slowly. "Thank you. Your segment was solid too," I offered, trying to keep things civil. It was true; Trevor was competent, if not a bit unoriginal in his approach. But he wasn't here for compliments.
He ran a hand through his hair. I noticed his fingers were shaking slightly. "Cut the crap, Alex. We both know something's off."
My stomach flipped. "Off? What do you mean?" I feigned ignorance, but my voice was a touch too breathy. Calm down, I urged myself. There was no way he could know the real truth.
Trevor stepped closer to the table, lowering his voice further. "I mean you. A month ago, you were a mediocre performer – above average maybe, but not extraordinary. Then suddenly you're pulling genius code overnight, predicting data results spot-on in meetings, and breezing through workloads like it's nothing. And yesterday..." He huffed through his nose. "Yesterday you upstaged me completely. It's like you knew exactly what problem would stump me and you solved it single-handedly."
He wasn't wrong. I had known, because I'd actually gotten stuck on the same problem and rewound time to try alternative solutions until I found one, before presenting it in the meeting. But of course, he couldn't know that detail. I kept my expression as mild as possible. "It's called hard work, Trevor. I've been busting my ass to improve. You asked if I had 'some new tools' before – well, maybe I do. Or maybe I just stopped holding myself back."
"Hard work," he repeated, with a scoff. "Right. Do you think I'm stupid?" He locked eyes with me, voice dripping with skepticism. "No one improves that fast without... I don't know, without help. Either someone's feeding you answers, or you've got some hack." He then added, almost to himself, "Or you're juicing on one of those neuro-boost drugs or something."
I blinked. That one I didn't expect. Nootropics, he meant – cognitive enhancers. They were a thing these days, though our company had strict policies. I latched onto that suggestion as a possible red herring. "You think I'm on brain steroids?" I gave a short laugh, trying to sound genuinely amused. "C'mon, Trevor. That stuff's mostly legend. I've just been focused. Look, I know my sudden performance uptick is surprising, but we're all capable of more than we think. Haven't you ever heard of flow state? I've kind of found my groove."
Trevor's lips pressed into a thin line. He wasn't buying it. "Cut the crap," he said again, each word hard. He leaned over the table. "I don't know what you're doing, Alex, but I will find out. If you're cheating—"
Now I bristled, a flash of anger flaring through my fear. "Cheating? On work? What exactly are you accusing me of?" Two can play the indignation game, and I tried to channel genuine offense. In truth, he wasn't wrong, though not in any way he could prove or even imagine.
He inhaled slowly, perhaps realizing he was close to making baseless allegations. "I'm... verifying things," he said, choosing his words. "If you've got some unauthorized script tapping into resources, or if you stole code—"
"Absolutely not," I snapped, more forcefully than intended. My heartbeat was thudding in my ears. "You saw my code. Everyone did. There was nothing stolen about it. And any 'scripts' I use are just productivity tools I wrote. All legit." I was vaguely aware that my hands had clenched into fists at my sides. Calm, I needed to stay calm.
Trevor glared. "Then you won't mind if IT does a full review. Of your commit logs, your access times—everything." There it was. His endgame.
I forced a derisive chuckle. "Be my guest," I lied. "They won't find anything except a lot of hours logged and code written. I've been working my tail off." I stepped toward the door, signaling that I considered this conversation over. "Instead of questioning my methods, maybe focus on your own work."
His eyes flashed, and for a second I thought he might actually take a swing at me. But he mastered himself. He straightened, rolling his shoulders like we were about to duel. "You're hiding something," he said in a low, dangerous tone. "I don't know what it is yet, but I'll figure it out. People don't just change overnight."
I swallowed, my mouth dry. "People can surprise you," I replied softly. "I'm still the same me, Trevor. Just motivated." With that, I reached past him and unlocked the door. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. We all do."
Trevor held my gaze a beat longer, then gave a slight, mocking bow. "By all means, Mr. Star Performer." He pulled the door open and walked out without another word, leaving me alone in the conference room with my heart hammering and a sheen of cold sweat on my back.
I closed the door again once I was sure he was gone, and slumped against it for a moment. That confrontation could have gone worse – at least he hadn't outright accused me of anything concrete in front of others or thrown a punch. But it also confirmed my worst fear: Trevor was on the hunt, and I was his prey. He wouldn't stop digging. He'd scrutinize every scrap of data and every action I took. And thanks to my own overzealous use of power, there were breadcrumbs to find, despite my attempt to sweep them away.
I rubbed my temples, the earlier headache now creeping back with a vengeance. How long before Trevor connected dots that couldn't be easily explained? I had managed to cover the immediate anomalies in the logs, but I couldn't do that every day. The more I leveraged my time manipulation to excel, the more traces I'd leave for someone smart and vindictive enough to piece together. And Trevor, for all his flaws, was intelligent. If he even got a whiff of something truly inexplicable... I couldn't let that happen.
As I stepped out to return to my desk, I made a conscious effort to unclench my fists and put on a mask of calm confidence. Mask and mirror, I thought wryly, recalling my earlier reflections on hiding my true self. Out here, I had to wear the mask of the brilliant rising star who had nothing to hide. Meanwhile, inside, every mirror of self-reflection showed a man fibbing and scheming to protect a secret power he never asked for, and using that power in questionable ways.
I returned to my desk and sat down, fingers hovering over the keyboard without really seeing the code on-screen. One thought kept echoing: This can't go on. Not like this. Sooner or later something would crack – either Trevor would catch a slip, or IT would notice an inconsistency I missed, or I'd drive myself insane with stress. I needed a better way to deflect suspicion, something proactive beyond just erasing footprints. Trevor was looking for a smoking gun. Maybe I needed to provide a decoy one – something that would satisfy his curiosity without exposing my actual secret.
It was a dangerous idea, but as I looked over at Trevor's empty chair (he was likely off harassing IT or plotting his next move), I realized it might be my best shot. I couldn't change the truth of my ability. But I could forge a more mundane explanation for my extraordinary streak. I started drafting a plan in my head. Step one: enlist some help from those still on my side.
As if on cue, my phone buzzed with a text – a welcome distraction from my racing thoughts. It was from Maya: "Hey, heard about your heroics at work! Drinks tonight to celebrate? :)"
I couldn't help but smile despite everything. Maya's timing was impeccable. More than ever, I felt the need for her steady presence. "Definitely," I texted back. "I could use the break."
Little did she know how much I meant that.
Chapter 13: Allies and Enemies
True to my word, I met Maya for drinks that evening, and I couldn't have been more grateful to have her there. We chose a cozy, dim-lit bar a few blocks from the office – one of those techie hangouts with sleek touch-screen menus at each booth and AI-mixed cocktails. Normally, I would've geeked out over the robotic arm gracefully shaking a martini in the background, but that night my mind was elsewhere.
Maya slid into the booth beside me instead of across, a small but comforting gesture. As soon as I saw her warm smile and felt her hand cover mine, the tightness in my chest began to loosen. In the privacy of that secluded corner, with the soft hum of low conversations around us, I didn't have to pretend. Not with her.
"Alright," she said gently, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. "Spill. You look like you've been carrying a two-ton weight all day."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. There was no point in hiding anything from Maya – she knew about my ability, and more importantly, she understood me. So I told her everything. In a low voice (old habits of secrecy die hard, even in a loud bar), I recounted the day's events: Trevor's glaring suspicion, the email from IT, my desperate time-frozen scramble to cover my tracks, and the confrontation that followed.
She listened intently, eyes never leaving my face. Occasionally her brow furrowed – like when I mentioned altering logs, she bit her lip, but she didn't interrupt. When I finished, I realized my hands were trembling around my untouched beer. Maya gently took the glass from me and set it aside before lacing her fingers with mine. The simple contact steadied me. In that moment, the background noise of the bar faded and it was just us.
"That's... a lot," she finally said. Her tone was calm, but I could see the concern in her eyes. "Are you okay?"
The question nearly undid me. Because no, I wasn't entirely okay. I hadn't been okay for a while – juggling secret powers, moral compromises, and now an active threat to my normal life. But having her here made the difference. I nodded slowly. "I am now. Kind of had a mini panic attack earlier," I admitted with a shaky laugh. "I keep thinking, what if I slip up? Trevor's sniffing around so hard, it's only a matter of time before he notices something I can't explain away."
Maya squeezed my hand. "We'll figure it out," she said firmly. That 'we' sent a warmth through me. I wasn't alone in this anymore. She tilted her head thoughtfully. "What's his angle? Why's he so fixated? Just jealousy?"
"Jealousy, pride, maybe paranoia," I said. "He can't accept that I improved without some kind of trick. And ironically, he's right, just not in any way he could guess." I smirked bitterly. "He suspects I've got like an algorithmic advantage or that I'm cheating conventionally. Hell, he even floated the idea I'm on neuro-enhancers."
Maya raised an eyebrow. "Are you?"
I snorted. "No! Just adrenaline and existential dread, mostly." At that, she laughed, and I felt a bit of tension dissolve. I sighed. "Point is, he's digging into my work logs, trying to find evidence of cheating. I managed to cover the oddities for now, but I can't keep doing that forever. It's starting to eat me up, lying and backpedaling."
Her expression turned pensive. "Then maybe don't just react to him. What if you give him something to find? Something innocuous that explains why you're suddenly performing so well."
I stared at her. It was as if she plucked the half-formed idea straight from my mind and gave it shape. "A decoy..." I murmured. "I was thinking similarly after our confrontation. Like, a cover story. What did you have in mind?"
She pursed her lips, eyes flicking upward in that way she does when brainstorming. "He mentioned you might have some new tool or script. Why not make that true? At least on the surface. You're brilliant enough to create a modest AI assistant for coding, right?"
My mind started to race in a far more positive direction. "I... yeah. I could. A simple machine learning model trained on our codebase to auto-suggest improvements, something like that. Many developers use AI autocompletion anyway. If I present it like I custom-built a better one—"
"—it gives a neat explanation for your 'boost' in productivity," Maya finished, eyes lighting up. "You mentioned to Trevor a while back you were working on new tools. Let him think this is it. Grace and the higher-ups might even be impressed by that initiative. It'd turn suspicion into admiration."
A smile crept onto my face for the first time that day. It felt almost devious – in a playful way – that we were effectively manufacturing a lie to hide a bigger truth. But it was a far better lie than the alternative. It didn't hurt anyone, and it could defang Trevor's crusade. "Operation Decoy AI," I said, clinking my glass lightly against hers. "Let's do it."
Maya grinned. "That's the spirit. And hey, I can help, if you need. Testing or polishing the pitch." She paused, a slight blush on her cheeks that wasn't from the drink. "I'm so proud of you, you know. Even with... everything going on, you're trying to handle it responsibly."
My throat tightened with emotion. Proud. It had been a long time since anyone said they were proud of me without a hint of irony or surprise. I wasn't sure I deserved it after all my secret manipulations, but hearing it from her meant the world. "I don't know what I'd do without you," I said quietly, honestly. The noise of the bar swirled around, but we were in our own bubble.
Her eyes softened. "Luckily, you don't have to find out." And just like that, we bridged the small distance between us. She leaned in, and I met her halfway, our lips pressing together in a gentle, lingering kiss.
It was as if time slowed – not by my power, but by that universal magic of a perfect moment. My mind, so burdened all day, went quiet. The anxiety, the guilt, the careful calculations – they all receded while I lost myself in the warmth of Maya's kiss. When we finally drew apart, I rested my forehead against hers, eyes closed, trying to etch the feeling into memory. If ever I needed a reminder of why I must protect this life and the people in it, this was it.
We left the bar shortly after, arms around each other against the cool night breeze, and parted with the promise of seeing each other soon – likely the next day at work, although we worked in different departments. I went home that night and, true to plan, started coding up the faux AI assistant. If Trevor wanted a trick, I'd give him one he could never replicate but would totally believe.
It was almost fun, in a subversive way. I whipped up a program that took some open-source machine learning code and tailored it to our company's coding style. I even introduced a few intentional quirks – like an overly formal commit message generator – to make it seem more 'real'. By 2 AM, I had a working prototype. I named it "Chronicle", a nod to time (my private inside joke). Chronicle would scan code for common inefficiencies and suggest improvements. Nothing too groundbreaking, but solid enough that if demonstrated, it would look impressive, especially to management who weren't intimately familiar with coding. I chuckled darkly at the thought: I was basically plagiarizing my own superpowered work under the guise of AI. But if it kept my literal superpower off the radar, so be it.
The next morning, as expected, an email summons arrived from Grace for a "discussion" – which was likely prompted by Trevor. I felt a nervous energy, but also a quiet confidence. I had a plan and an ally. Maya had texted a smiling emoji and a thumbs-up before work, presumably to bolster my courage. It helped.
At 10 AM, I walked into a small conference room where Grace was waiting. She stood with arms crossed and a serious expression that softened a little when I entered. "Alex, thanks for joining. Trevor should be here in a minute. We need to go over some concerns."
I nodded, feigning mild confusion. "Sure. Is everything okay?" Grace gestured for me to sit. Before she could answer, Trevor arrived. He closed the door with a little too much force and sat down across from me, trying to look composed but I could see the triumph in his eyes – he thought he had me on the ropes.
Grace cleared her throat. "I'll get right to it. Trevor brought up some points about your recent work that I'd like to clarify. Now, Alex," she fixed me with a steady gaze, "we're extremely pleased with your performance. Your contributions have been top-notch. But there have been... questions raised about how you achieved certain results so quickly."
Trevor couldn't resist jumping in. "It's about rigor and process. We need to ensure no corners were cut that could risk quality or security." His voice was dripping with false professionalism. I almost preferred his outright hostility – this two-faced act was nauseating.
I put on a puzzled, slightly hurt expression. "I absolutely agree, rigor is critical. I stand by my work completely. What exactly is being questioned?" I asked softly. Let them spell it out.
Grace took a breath. "Mainly, Trevor says you seemed to solve some complex coding problems almost magically fast. And there were unusual patterns in system usage—"
"We had IT look into it," Trevor cut in, unable to keep the smug edge out of his voice. "There was nothing conclusive, but it's highly unusual for one person to churn out that volume of polished code overnight without some extraordinary help."
I gave Grace an earnest look. "I understand the skepticism. It was a lot of work in a short time. The truth is, I did have help." I let that hang for half a heartbeat, seeing Trevor's eyes flare with vindication. Grace raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Not from another person," I continued, "but from a tool. Something I've been developing on my own time for a while now."
Trevor's victorious expression faltered, shifting to confusion. Grace leaned forward. "What kind of tool?"
This was it. I clicked the lid of my laptop and opened it on the table. "I call it Project Chronicle," I said, sliding it so both of them could see the screen. I had the interface up – a simple integrated development environment with a chat-like sidebar. "It's an AI-based coding assistant I've been training for a few months. Basically, it analyzes code and suggests improvements or even writes snippets based on context. I originally built it to help me catch bugs and learn from better patterns."
Trevor blinked, clearly not expecting this. Grace's skepticism gave way to intrigued curiosity. "Go on," she said.
I began a quick demo. I pulled up a piece of code – a messy, intentionally suboptimal function I'd prepared. "So here's a function I wrote that's not very efficient." (In truth, I'd written it poorly on purpose.) "I ask Chronicle for suggestions." I typed a prompt: 'Analyze and improve this function.'
The screen showed a spinner for a moment (I'd made sure to add a slight artificial delay for realism). Then the assistant produced a revised version of the code, highlighting changes – using a more efficient algorithm, cleaner structure. It even left a comment explaining the improvement. I stole a glance at Grace – she looked impressed. Trevor's frown deepened as he searched for something to criticize.
"This is how I've been boosting my productivity," I lied smoothly, with an apologetic smile. "I didn't mention it earlier because, well, it's a personal project and still experimental. I wasn't sure if it'd pan out. But it's not doing my work for me – more like it's helping me work smarter. I still write the core logic, but Chronicle catches things, suggests optimizations, sometimes generates boilerplate code on the fly."
Grace's eyes positively gleamed now. "Alex, that's... ingenious. Why didn't you bring this to us sooner? If it's that effective, this could be a tool other team members could use too."
I held up a hand modestly. "It's really tailored to my coding style right now. It'd need a lot of refining before it's generalized. Plus, I wasn't even sure it was viable until recently. But I'm happy to share it, if you think it has value." I glanced at Trevor. He was staring at the screen as if it might confess some secret. "I suspect Trevor raised concerns because from the outside, it looked like I was performing miracles. The miracle, if anything, is this little AI. I've basically been quietly building myself a better IDE."
Trevor's face had turned a subtle shade of red. "How do we know," he began, tone icy, "that you didn't train it on proprietary code or something that violates policy?"
I expected that. "I used only open-source data to train the core model," I replied evenly. "Then I fed it examples of my own code and some publicly available coding challenge solutions. I was careful not to expose any company IP in the training set. And it's running locally, not sending data out."
Grace interjected gently, "Trevor, I think what we're seeing explains a lot. If Alex has built such a tool, it stands to reason he'd see a sharp uptick in output. Frankly, I'm impressed he took the initiative to develop something like this on his own time." She offered me a small smile of approval. "This is the kind of innovation we want to foster."
Trevor looked like he wanted to protest, but what could he say? His grand insinuations were evaporating. I could almost see the gears in his head spinning – should he claim the AI angle was a fabrication? That would make him look petty and ridiculous given the demo we just saw. And if he demanded the logs investigation continue, Grace might think it unnecessary now. In fact, Grace seemed to have forgotten that part entirely in her excitement over Chronicle.
She leaned back and gave me a warmer smile. "I'm glad you shared this, Alex. It might be a bit unorthodox, but nothing about this violates any rules as far as I can see. Quite the opposite. I'd like you to prepare a short internal presentation on Chronicle for the next team meeting, if you're comfortable. Maybe others can learn from it."
"Of course," I said, feigning bashfulness. Inside, I felt a surge of triumph and relief. "I'm happy to." I turned to Trevor with an expression of friendly openness. "I'm sorry if my not mentioning it caused confusion, Trevor. You weren't wrong to be curious how I was doing it. I should've been more transparent."
It was a subtle victory lap, couched in politeness. Trevor forced a tight smile. "Well... that clears things up," he muttered. But I could tell from the glint in his eyes that I had just put him in his place publicly, and he hated it.
Grace wrapped up the meeting shortly after. As we were packing up, she said to Trevor, "I appreciate you bringing up concerns, but in this case it appears Alex was simply ahead of the curve. Let's channel that competitiveness positively going forward, alright?"
"Yes, of course," Trevor replied, voice flat. With that, we all left the room. Grace departed down the hall, already tapping out an email on her phone – likely about my project to someone. I knew this incident might actually boost my standing even more (now I was the guy who created a cool AI tool, not just the guy who outperformed Trevor). The irony wasn't lost on me, and I felt a twinge of guilt at deceiving Grace. But I quickly reminded myself that I hadn't lied to harm anyone – this lie was protecting something far more consequential.
Trevor and I walked in the same direction for a stretch in awkward silence. I could practically feel the anger radiating off him like heat. I braced myself for some snide remark once we were out of earshot of others. He didn't disappoint.
"Congratulations," he said under his breath. "You made a fool of me in front of the boss."
I kept my tone level. "That wasn't my intention. You asked questions, I answered. I had nothing to hide after all." The double meaning hung in the air – I was asserting my innocence, but also rubbing in that his big crusade failed.
He stopped walking, forcing me to stop too. He looked at me with undisguised loathing. "Maybe you satisfied Grace, but this isn't over, Mason." It was the first time he'd used my last name in a while. "An AI assistant... neat trick. But I still don't buy that it accounts for everything. Nobody goes from average to all-star just because they wrote a better autocomplete."
My heart rate ticked up again, but I maintained a facade of calm. "People improve, Trevor. And I think you underestimate how much a good tool can boost productivity. Maybe if you spent less time trying to undermine me and more time innovating yourself, you'd be... ahead." I regretted the last word as soon as it left my mouth – it was a needle, poking at his pride. But a part of me wanted to needle him. He'd threatened my livelihood, after all.
His nostrils flared. "Watch yourself," he growled. "You got your little victory today. Enjoy it. I'll be watching for when your fancy script doesn't save you." He turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving me alone in the corridor.
I let out a long breath once he disappeared around the corner. My hands were shaking again, but this time mostly from adrenaline, not fear. The plan had worked. At least, on the surface. Trevor was neutralized in the eyes of our superiors. But his parting words made clear: he wasn't truly convinced or ready to let it drop. He'd lie in wait for any other slip-up, something that Chronicle couldn't explain.
Still, I'd bought myself time and plausible deniability. And I didn't plan on giving him any more ammunition. I resolved then to dial back my overt use of the power at work for a while. It wasn't worth risking something even Chronicle couldn't mask.
Later that afternoon, Ryan swung by my desk, plopping down in the adjacent chair uninvited as he often did. "Dude," he said in a hushed tone, "what the hell happened with Trevor? He's stomping around like someone ran over his cat."
I smirked. "We had a meeting with Grace. He raised some concerns about my work, but I cleared it up. No big deal."
Ryan gave me a doubtful look. "Trevor doesn't get that bent out of shape over 'no big deal'. I haven't seen him this furious since... well, ever. He basically told Kevin in QA to shove a server rack up his—" Ryan caught himself and lowered his voice again. "Look, he cornered me at lunch, too."
That got my attention. "He what?" My mind jumped to worst-case scenarios – had Trevor tried to rope in my best friend to spy on me? Ryan rubbed the back of his neck, clearly agitated at the memory. "Yeah. He found me in the break room and started with all these loaded questions. Asking if I noticed anything 'weird' about you lately. If you were acting erratic or I heard you mention any 'performance aids'. He even suggested maybe you've been working on confidential stuff off the clock and implying it could be 'dangerous for the company'. Total BS."
I felt a flush of anger. Trevor's audacity knew no bounds. "What did you say?"
Ryan crossed his arms. "Told him to quit the witch hunt. That you're just on a roll and he should mind his own damn business. I may have used the words 'sore loser' and 'paranoid', and—well, he skulked off after that."
A warm gratitude filled me. Ryan had gone to bat for me without even knowing the real stakes. I smiled. "Thanks, man. I'm sorry he dragged you into this. Trevor's convinced I'm hiding some trick up my sleeve."
Ryan shrugged. "He's just salty. Don't worry, pretty much everyone sees through it. Grace certainly will, if she hasn't already. I mean, come on, you've always been brilliant. Maybe you're just finally showing it." He gave me a friendly punch on the shoulder. "About time, huh?"
I managed a genuine laugh. "Yeah. Better late than never." In that moment, I realized how fortunate I was to have people like Ryan – and Maya – in my corner. The Allies, I thought wryly, versus the Enemies. It did feel a bit like I was assembling a quiet alliance. Even if only one of them (Maya) knew the whole truth, both supported the me they believed in. I didn't want to let either of them down.
As the day came to a close, I packed up with a sense of cautious optimism. I stopped by Grace's office to confirm that all was well; she waved me off with a smile and said, "Great work, Alex. Keep it up – and send me a summary on that AI of yours." I assured her I would.
On my way out of the building, my phone buzzed with a message from Maya: "How'd it go? Is Mr. Suspicious pacified? Need a celebratory dinner?"
I texted back: "Went well. Decoy deployed perfectly. Tell you everything over dinner. My treat."
This time, I didn't even bother trying to hide the big smile on my face as I left. The sunset painted the sky in hues of orange and purple as I walked toward the subway, and for once I allowed myself to feel the victory. It wasn't a total win – Trevor was still out there, nursing his resentment – but I had the upper hand and a plan. More importantly, I had people I cared about, and who cared about me, to share the burden.
That evening, as I recounted the day's drama to Maya over dinner at our favorite little Thai place, she beamed like a proud partner in crime. When I described Trevor's face upon seeing Chronicle, she nearly snorted curry out of her nose laughing. We toasted with glasses of wine to "outsmarting smart people."
Under the table, her foot nudged mine, and we shared a look that made my heart flutter. In that look was everything: relief, affection, the thrill of conspiratorial victory. I realized then how deeply my feelings for Maya had grown. What started as a tentative friendship had blossomed into something profound, forged by trust and honesty (even as I spun lies to others, with her I was completely truthful).
Walking her home after dinner, with the city lights flickering around us, she slipped her hand into mine. I remembered thinking not too long ago how lonely it felt to hold such a massive secret alone. Now her hand in mine was a reminder that I wasn't alone anymore. We paused outside her apartment door, reluctant to part. She looked up at me, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I'm really happy for you, Alex," she said softly. "You handled this so well."
I put my arms around her, pulling her into a gentle hug. "Couldn't have done it without you," I murmured into her hair. And it was true – not just the plan, but surviving the day with my sanity intact. She knew what I meant without me having to explain.
When we finally said goodnight, I felt a mix of exhaustion and contentment. Trevor's threat had been managed for now, and I had room to breathe again. But I also knew this was just one battle in a larger war. There were other ripples from my power use out in the world, ones Trevor wasn't even aware of, that could come back to haunt me. And beyond that, an ominous feeling lingered in the back of my mind – like the calm after outsmarting Trevor was only setting the stage for a bigger storm. I resolved to enjoy this victory, fleeting as it might be, and gather my strength for whatever came next.
Little did I suspect that soon enough, circumstances would force my hand in ways I couldn't anticipate—those ripples might swell into waves, pushing me toward revealing my secret to someone whether I was ready or not.