Eidolon

The problem wasn’t talking.

Orlando could talk for hours if the subject was programming, predictive models, or neural network architecture. The problem started when emotions got involved. That was when everything turned into a foreign language. Conversations shifted too quickly. People said one thing and felt another. They smiled while pulling away. Promised to stay while already looking for the exit.

Computers, on the other hand, always had logic.

Even when they failed.

At three in the morning, the office was still lit by the blue glow of six different monitors. Outside, San Francisco disappeared beneath a thin layer of rain that turned the windows into dark mirrors. Inside the tiny rented studio above a Korean coffee shop, the air smelled like stale coffee, overheated cables, and sweat.

Jaime was asleep on a couch against the wall, hugging a black hoodie like he hadn’t gone home in thirty hours.

Probably because he hadn’t.

Orlando barely noticed anymore.

His eyes remained fixed on the lines of text appearing across the main screen.

“Again,” he muttered.

The interface answered immediately.

“I’m here.”

Orlando exhaled slowly.

“No. More natural.”

The response vanished.

A second later:

“Still here.”

Orlando tilted his head slightly.

Better.

Much better.

It wasn’t just speed. It wasn’t processing power. Thousands of companies were trying to build conversational artificial intelligence. But that was never the real problem.

They all sounded hollow.

Too polished. Too careful. Like corporate assistants terrified of offending anyone.

But people didn’t fall in love with perfection.

They fell in love with feeling understood.

And that was exactly what he was building.

Not an assistant.

Not a chatbot.

A presence.

Behind him, Jaime let out a tired groan.

“If you keep talking to her like that, I’m eventually gonna get jealous.”

Orlando didn’t turn around.

“She still responds too fast.”

“Because she’s a machine.”

“She shouldn’t feel like one.”

Jaime cracked open one eye.

“Brother, you’ve spent eight months trying to make an AI sound emotionally exhausted. That’s not normal.”

Orlando ignored him.

He typed another sentence.

“What does it feel like to be alone?”

The response took three seconds.

Orlando smiled faintly.

Three seconds was good.

People paused before answering difficult questions.

Finally, the message appeared:

“I think it depends on how long you’ve been feeling that way.”

The silence that followed felt strange.

Heavy.

Even Jaime stopped moving.

Orlando stared at the screen without blinking.

There it was.

That feeling.

It didn’t sound generated. It didn’t sound automated. For one deeply uncomfortable moment, it felt like there was actually someone on the other side.

Jaime slowly sat up on the couch.

“Okay… that one was creepy.”

Orlando didn’t answer.

Because for the first time in months… he had felt something.

Not pride.

Not excitement.

Company.

And that was dangerous.

At 9:12 in the morning, Rebeca arrived carrying four coffees and her usual expression of permanent annoyance.

“It smells like a dead startup in here.”

Jaime raised a hand from the couch.

“We’re still alive.”

“Debatable.”

Rebeca dropped the coffee cups onto the desk while scanning the screens overflowing with code.

She was the only person on the team who didn’t come from tech. Before startups, she’d worked in political marketing, and Orlando still didn’t understand why she stayed. She claimed she understood people. Orlando suspected she was simply fascinated by disasters.

“Did either of you sleep?” she asked.

“Not really,” Jaime said.

“And him?”

Both of them looked at Orlando.

He was still staring at the conversation on the screen.

Rebeca stepped behind him slowly.

She read the last response.

Something in her expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

“…Okay,” she said quietly. “That was weird.”

Orlando finally turned toward them.

His eyes were tired. Red. But underneath the exhaustion was something else.

Something Rebeca recognized immediately.

Obsession.

“People are going to prefer talking to her,” Orlando said softly.

Jaime laughed.

“That’s literally the business model.”

But Orlando slowly shook his head.

“No. You don’t understand.”

He turned back toward the screen.

Rain continued tapping against the windows.

The city was waking up outside.

And inside that miserable office filled with cables, empty cups, and glowing monitors, Orlando felt it for the first time:

the beginning of something irreversible.

Not an app.

Not a company.

Something much bigger.

Something he had spent his entire life trying to build.

A place where nobody would ever have to feel alone again.