I wish I could do more than just rage.

I hate feeling impotent. That’s probably why I’m subconsciously typing so violently that it feels like I’m trying to smash the keyboard. As if that’s gonna do me much good. Maybe if I type hard enough, some of my rage will magically be transferred into my words, who knows?

I sure hope so. Those fuckers keep turning me down.

The aptly, dystopianly named office of research integrity keeps refusing to approve human trials for my BIP — a brain interface prototype for a neural learning accelerator. My invention. My stroke of genius.

They keep refusing it, even though it’s passed every other testing stage with flying colors.

Three years. Eighteen rejected proposals. And the worst part is that every single fucking rejection bears Richard Dawson’s greasy fingerprints.

I pause, fingers hovering over the keys as I consider my words carefully. "The BIP Neural Learning Accelerator has shown remarkable results in both simulations and testing environments so far. Human trials are the next logical step."

It’s true, every word, but how is it any different than the previous arguments they’ve rejected? Richard isn’t part of that office, but he’s got friends in there, and every time he wants me stonewalled, they all oblige like the spineless corporate NPCs they are.

I can see his sneering face even now, the way his lips curl with disdain whenever I present my findings. We need to be very careful about this, Zara, he always says, but what he means is, Not on my watch, not while you're the one pioneering it.

It’s too risky, he’d tell me with that asshole tone of his because he knows that’s not true, and that I can’t call him out on his bullshit. Cognitive enhancement requires extra oversight. We don’t have the protocols for this yet. Especially when it’s done by a junior researcher.

It’s insane to me. This is a corporation. What corporation doesn’t want to make money hand over fist with a new fancy piece of tech?

But I suppose that’s the point, Richard isn’t really doing the interests of the company, just his own.

Richard's ego can't handle the fact that I, a young woman, could develop something so groundbreaking. His archaic worldview is threatened by my brilliance, and rather than embrace progress, he clings to his outdated notions of superiority.

He may have been a real techie once, but now he’s nothing more than a pencil-pushing bureaucrat, a relic of a bygone era where mediocre men could coast by on their unearned privilege.

He behaves towards me just like you would expect a chauvinist to behave towards a smarter, younger lesbian engineer. Hell, I’ve stopped wearing black stockings to work because he kept ogling me. Just sober office pants for me, these days. Tell me if that’s fair, that I should limit my behaviour because he can’t keep his eyes to himself!

But the wording is what really gives it away, that this is sexism on his part.

Junior.

He always refers to me as a junior researcher, despite my track record, despite the fact he hasn’t engineered anything more complex than a spreadsheet since three administrations ago.

He even dared call me overly ambitious, once. Just a polite way of saying I'm reaching above my station. Daring to challenge the status quo.

I slam the enter key, sending the email into the digital void. Futile, in all probability, but at least it’s better than inaction. I lean back in my chair and cross one leg over the other, the wheels creaking softly as I look at the ceiling, thinking.

The BIP — the prototype for what the company is calling a Neural Learning Accelerator — could literally change the world overnight. Hopefully, for the better. It uses neurostimulation to interact directly with myelin in the brain, speeding up signal transmission, making recall faster and more intuitive over time.

It rewards learning with a variety of feel-good chemicals.

It uses non-invasive electrodes and soft biocompatible materials to sit comfortably on the scalp. It syncs wirelessly to devices (phones, laptops) to pull learning content, functioning discreetly during daily activities.

It’s perfect.

My invention can achieve so much. Instead, it's gathering dust, because Richard doesn’t care how many lives my invention could improve. He’s just protecting his cushy job.

And his fragile masculinity, too. That’s all it takes to threaten it. A younger woman who dares to excel in a field he considers his domain. He'd rather sabotage my work than face the reality of his own inadequacy.

And he’s getting away with it.

I’d threaten to quit and bring the ideas to a rival competitor, but there are so many clauses guarding against precisely that strategy in my contract that it’s not even worth the try. I have to accept that this is out of my hands.

Unless…

I stand up, the chair rolling back with a squeak. I can’t let him win. And there is one thing I can do, to take my destiny in my own hands.

If the official channels won't approve human trials, then I'll find another way. I'll be my own test subject if I have to.

I can't believe I'm actually considering this. Self-experimentation would be a desperate move. It could torch my career, and it could doom my invention, too.

No ethics committee in their right mind would accept the results of a lone researcher playing guinea pig. But at this point, I'm past caring. Richard and his cronies have backed me into a corner, leaving me with no legitimate path forward. If I can't use the proper channels to bring my creation to life, then I'll just have to show the higher-ups that this thing works.

Bottom line, they can make money with it. Hopefully that will be motivation enough for them to overlook how I got their attention. Corporations do shady shit like that all the time, why should this case be any different?

It’s not wise. It really isn’t. But internally, I already know that my decision is made.

I want to do more than just rage.

***

I observe with some dissociated detachment that my hands are trembling.

I take a deep breath to steady myself, and I carefully pack the prototype into my backpack, nestling it between layers of clothing. I can't risk damaging it before I even have a chance to test it.

I switch off the lights and exit the lab, my heart pounding in my chest as I make my way down the empty hallway. The building is eerily quiet at this hour, most of the employees having gone home for the night. The only sound is the soft thud of my footsteps on the floor.

That’s good. A few more meters, then the elevator, then the lobby… and then, I’ll be in the clear. Almost there. Just a little more.

I reach the elevator, and make to press the down button, when a voice startles me.

"Going somewhere?"

I whirl around, heart leaping into my throat. Richard is standing there, arms crossed, his face an unreadable mask.

"Richard! I didn't expect anyone else to still be here," I say, trying to keep my voice level. Inside, panic is rising like bile. This is bad. Really bad.

"I could say the same," he replies coolly, his eyes flicking to my overstuffed backpack. "What's in the bag, Zara?"

My heart skips a beat. He knows. Of course he knows. I try to play it cool anyway.

"What personal items I carry on and off site isn’t any of your business. I'm heading home for the night."

"True. What about the non-personal items?"

I swallow hard. "I’m not doing that."

He shrugs. "Then let me see what’s in the bag."

I stomp a booted foot against the floor, doing my best impression of offended indignation. As a feminist lesbian in a masculinity fest of an industry, God knows I’ve had practice.

I waggle a finger at him and say, raising my voice, "You have no authority to ask that!"

"No," he says, shrugging again, totally unfazed by my display. "But I do have the authority to go check that the BIP is still in its docking cradle in the lab. Should I go do that, or are you going to save me the trip we both know is not necessary?"

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I can’t meet his gaze. I look away from him, huffing and puffing, hands on my hips, biting my lip in anger and fear. This fucking asshole.

He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. We both know that my silence is the confirmation he was looking for. When I finally have the willpower to look him in the eyes again, I don’t even try and deny the accusation. It’d be pointless. Time to try something else.

"Ethics review and R&D aren’t supposed to be personal vendettas."

"Says the girl smuggling restricted tech after hours. Look, Zara, have you gone mad? Don’t you get it? What you’re doing is theft of intellectual property. That’s grounds for immediate termination. And criminal charges!”

I blink at how serious he looks over this. No smugness. No gloating. I’m not sure what to make of that. "This isn’t theft. I created this tech. It’s my IP."

"Don’t insult my intelligence," he says, his eyes narrowing. "You know damn well that’s not how it works. You developed this with company resources, on company time. Legally, it’s a corporate asset, and unauthorised removal of a company asset is theft. It’s as simple as that."

I hate that he's right. I hate that even as he’s being perfectly reasonable, he can still make me feel small, insignificant.

"Corporate espionage carries a five-year minimum, Zara," he says. "Wonder what your girlfriend would think? Visiting days at Bedford Penitentiary are Saturdays, aren’t they?"

Why does the fucker have to make everything personal? "I’m single, you ass. And more importantly, it’s not espionage. I’m conducting research."

"Research? There’s a reason we don’t test stuff on ourselves all the time, Zara!" He shakes his head. "Even if you somehow made it work, the company could never use the results. You’ve just torched your career for nothing."

I feel like I might be sick. My stomach is churning, my head spinning with the realisation of just how badly I've miscalculated. I thought I was taking control of my destiny, but all I've done is hand Richard the weapon to obliterate my career.

"Wait," I manage to say at last, my voice sounding small and desperate even to my own ears. "Please. There has to be another way."

"What other way? If I don’t report this, I'll be putting my own job at risk. I could face consequences too for not stopping you when I had the chance. Don’t you see it?"

It’s true. All of that is true, and there’s no point directly arguing against it. I really only have one leg to stand on, the only argument I’ve ever had in promoting my creation.

It’s the only argument I can use now.

I step close into Richard’s personal space and grab him by the shirt. He looks shaken at the abrupt gesture as I lean close to him, looking at him with all the intensity I can muster.

"Richard," I say, hoping to reach him, to pierce past his defenses and his ego and to really reach him this time. "It works."

He looks at me, blinking, processing my words. I press on. This is my one window to get through to him, and I cannot afford to waste it.

"Accelerated retention rates. Synaptic mapping efficiency at 89% over baseline. Direct action on myelin. It works. I just need proof!"

I stare into Richard's eyes, my grip on his shirt tightening. "Listen to me, for once in your life. No one else needs to find out about this. We can keep it between us, and do this together. If we do this right, there's no risk of losing our jobs or facing legal consequences."

Richard's brow furrows, but he doesn't pull away. I can see the gears turning in his head as he considers my words.

I press on, sensing an opening. "Think about it, Richard. If we can prove that the Neural Learning Accelerator works, the potential is limitless. Not just for the company, but for us personally. We could become rich, famous even. Pioneers in the field of cognitive enhancement."

His eyes widen slightly at the mention of wealth and recognition. I know I've struck a chord. He looks at me long and hard, weighing the risks against the potential rewards. I can practically see the scales tipping in his mind.

Finally, he sighs heavily. "Fine. But on one condition. Someone else needs to oversee the experiment to keep it above board. Someone who monitors your vitals, your cognitive function, everything, and if they see even a hint of something going wrong, they pull the plug immediately. We do this by the book as much as possible, given the circumstances."

My heart leaps at his words. He's actually considering it! But I frown at his stipulation. Having someone else involved complicates things.

"Who did you have in mind? We can't exactly put out an ad for this."

Richard fixes me with an intense stare. "If the right senior person were supervising, I guess it wouldn't be gross misconduct. One of the benefits of my position is that I can muddy the waters."

My eyes widen as the realisation hits me. "You mean… you? You would oversee the experiment yourself?"

He nods slowly. "It's the only way to keep this contained. We can't risk involving anyone else. I’ll play around with the paperwork, and so long as we don't get audited, you'll be fine."

I take a deep breath. This is definitely the best option for me. By doing this, he’s implicating himself with my behaviour, he’ll have a strong incentive not to rat me out.

I do hate the idea of designating him as a trainer, though. At least at this prototype stage, the device doesn’t promote self-learning, it requires bidirectional calibration. The user mentally selects a “trainer”—a person whose expertise or teaching the device is supposed to facilitate absorption of.

He doesn’t deserve the implied recognition of seniority that comes with the trainer designation. It makes my skin crawl. The only reason why we’re both in this position is because I’m a better engineer than he is.

But on the other hand, what's the worst he could really do? Force me to memorise every inane comma of the company policy handbook? Attempt to instill some warped sense of respect for his supposed authority? It's not ideal, but it's hardly world-ending.

It certainly beats prison.

"Deal," I say, releasing my grip on his shirt and stepping back. "We start tonight. In the lab."

Richard nods curtly. "I'll get the equipment set up. You…" He eyes my backpack. "You bring the prototype. Let’s take this baby out for a spin, shall we?"

***

I take a deep breath as I settle into the chair, my hands trembling slightly as I lift the helmet-shaped BIP from my bag. I glance up at Richard, who is busy adjusting the settings on the monitoring equipment. He meets my gaze and nods.

We’re ready.

I gently place the interface atop my head, feeling the cool touch of the electrodes against my scalp. The biocompatible materials conform perfectly to my skull.

The moment of truth is here at last.

When I reopen my eyes, I don’t see the world as it is. I see more. The device’s menu is overlaid against my retinas, and I can move in and out of menus simply by blinking.

I designed this interface myself, but seeing it in action is something else. Holy shit. It actually works! It’s actually easy to use! I blink my way through a few options and settings, until eventually I’ve primed the device for trainer selection.

That’s when I focus on Richard.

It’s a true cosmic irony, I suppose, that we should each find ourselves in this moment. The chauvinist and the feminist. The sexual predator and the lesbian. The pencil pusher and the actual engineer. I’ve made this thing, and he’s done his best to unmake my career progression, and yet the confluence of events has brought us here.

And now, at least for a time, there’ll be another duality to add to that list, hopefully a less antagonistic one this time.

Trainer and trainee.

Keeping my eyes on Richard, I initiate the calibration sequence.

A progress bar fills rapidly on the display. Within seconds, the interface chimes softly, indicating that the bidirectional connection has been established.

"It’s done," I say.

Richard leans in, studying the readouts on the monitoring equipment. "Vitals are stable, neural activity within expected parameters," he says, a hint of begrudging admiration in his voice. "Looks like you've really pulled it off, Zara."

I nod, barely able to contain my elation. "Let's put it to the test, shall we? As the designated trainer, you should select a learning goal for me."

Richard ponders for a moment. "How about we start with something challenging, like learning a new language? Say, German. Open some website with a free course and go through a couple beginner lessons right now, just to monitor what happens. Then in future sessions, you’ll continue deeper into the course and we’ll see how fast you’re learning it. How does that sound?"

I nod and pull out my laptop, navigating to a popular language learning site, and selecting the beginner German course.

What comes next is fairly uneventful, at least on the surface. I sit and go through the lesson. Richard sits and monitors my vitals. But my heart is beating like crazy, because what’s happening inside my mind is very, very far from being ordinary.

Every time I grasp a concept, I’m flooded with a sensation of pure reward that feels incredible. It’s like my whole body is trying to say well done to me. I intuitively suspected that if we could harness the power of positive conditioning, we could make learning and studying so much easier for hundreds of millions of people.

But what I feel right now surpasses even my expectations.

I experience no strain or fatigue at all during the lesson. My nervous system is flooded with dopamine to the point that memorisation goes from tedious to almost addictive. I crave the next tidbit of knowledge, because I know that when I finally grasp it, I’ll be rewarded again. It’s almost…

Orgasmic?

The beauty is that you don’t need to wear the helmet 24/7 for this to happen, either. Once your brain is rewired and the conditioning is established, you'll reward yourself for doing the right thing. It’s basically hacking your brain’s reward center to incentivise the behavior you want.

And that’s just on the motivational side. The cognitive side is harder for me to assess, but it feels like I’ve breezed through the lesson in minutes, and that I’m having almost no difficulty recalling its content at will.

Richard looks at the monitoring equipment readouts, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "Zara, these results are… extraordinary. Your brain activity is off the charts, and yet your vitals remain stable… at this rate, you'll have a solid grasp of conversational German in a matter of days, if not sooner."

I can’t help but grin. That’s the real proof that my creation works. It’s left even him speechless! "I told you so."

We agree to continue the trials, with Richard overseeing my progress and monitoring my well-being. But as I contemplate his stunned, awed reaction at what he’s seeing on the monitors, I experience it again.

That dopamine surge that seems to ripple downward from my scalp like a happy wave.

That’s odd. I’m not studying German right now. No learning outcomes have been achieved. What’s the device rewarding me for?

Oh. Of course. I suppose it makes sense. I’m being rewarded because my… my designated trainer is visibly pleased with my achievements tonight.

Pleased with me.

That’s a relief. For a second, I thought the BIP was malfunctioning and issuing rewards at random! Instead, it’s just making me respond to my trainer’s feedback, even implicit feedback.

Nothing to worry about at all.

***

It's been two weeks since I began the secret experiment with Richard, and the results have been nothing short of astonishing. My proficiency in German is skyrocketing at a pace that defies belief. I find myself effortlessly absorbing complex grammar structures and expanding my vocabulary with each passing day.

Oddly enough, however, that’s not the strangest thing that’s happening to me these days. I find myself…

Warming up to Richard?

It’s weird. Really, really weird. The dude has very few redeeming qualities and we have nothing in common. Not our politics — no prizes for guessing who he votes for — and not our hobbies, since his basically boil down to having a few drinks after work, watching sports, and hitting on women in inappropriate social contexts.

Not to mention what a thorn in my side he’s been for years.

Necessity and happenstance have brought us together on the experiment, and it is working out fine, but that doesn’t make him any less of a scumbag, and yet I've found myself spending more time with Richard outside of our scheduled trials. At first, I rationalised it as a necessity, a way to discuss the progress of the experiment and make any necessary adjustments.

But if I'm being honest with myself, there's more to it than that.

I catch myself mirroring his body language, leaning in when he speaks, even laughing at his jokes that I once found grating. It's subtle, but it's there.

I’m sure I’m just getting worked up over nothing. We share a secret that could destroy our lives or make us rich beyond our wildest dreams. There’s going to be bonding in that, irrespective of everything else. There always is, when people spend time together in high-stakes situation. And teamwork has a way of facilitating that as well, even with unlikely bedfellows.

So to speak.

One evening, after another test session, Richard suggests grabbing a drink to unwind. Against my better judgment, I agree. We find ourselves at a dimly lit bar, sipping whiskey and discussing the implications of my invention. As the alcohol flows, so does the conversation, veering into more personal territory. I catch myself laughing at his jokes, leaning in closer than I normally would.

Then, as we both reach for our drinks, his hand brushes against mine.

I don’t have much experience with male hands, outside of, well, literal handshakes. My first, instinctual reaction is that his feels so different from a woman’s hand. Too big. Too rough and unyielding. Not warm or soft or comforting at all.

My second reaction is to wonder why the hell I haven’t yanked my hand back yet.

He looks at me with a mixture of surprise and awkwardness before finally clearing his throat and withdrawing his hand. That’s good. Still, I should have pulled away first. What the hell?

At work the next day, I'm standing in front of the vending machine in the break room, trying to decide what snack to get. My eyes drift over to Richard's usual picks - the honey roasted peanuts and those god-awful barbecue potato chips that smell like fake smoke. I wrinkle my nose in distaste. I've always hated those flavors.

And yet, before I can stop myself, I'm punching in the codes for both snacks. The machine whirs and clunks, dispensing the packets into the tray below. I stare at them, baffled by my own actions. What the fuck am I doing?

I snatch them up and hurry back to my desk, tearing open the chips and popping one into my mouth.

Meh. The taste is as bad as I remembered it being…

But I feel… rewarded by positive association. That’s…

Ominous.

Before I know it, I've finished the whole bag. The peanuts disappear in a similar fashion.

As I'm licking the sticky honey residue from my fingers, I catch sight of Richard walking by my desk. He glances at the empty wrappers and raises an eyebrow.

"I thought you hated those?"

"Correct." I quickly crumple up the wrappers and toss them into the trash, avoiding his gaze. What is wrong with me? Why am I suddenly craving foods I despise, just because he likes them? It doesn't make any sense.

But it doesn't stop there. Over the next few days, I find myself making other small changes, almost unconsciously. I start wearing skirts and black stockings to work again, instead of the pants I started wearing specifically so he wouldn’t ogle me.

I tell myself it's because the weather is getting warmer, but deep down, I know that's not the real reason. I've seen the way Richard's eyes linger on my legs when I wear stockings.

He likes them.

He likes me in them.

And my brain reacts to that notion by flooding my system with dopamine.

Oh, fuck.

I stand abruptly, nearly knocking over my chair in the process. Richard steps back, startled by my sudden movement.

"I… I need to go," I say, stammering, grabbing my bag and heading for the door. "I just remembered… an appointment."

Maybe I do have something to worry about, after all…

***

Several more weeks pass as Richard and I continue our clandestine trials with the Neural Learning Accelerator. My German proficiency is advancing at a breakneck pace that astounds us both. I'm dreaming in German now, thinking in German. It's becoming second nature.

But something else is becoming second nature too, and that's far more concerning. My growing fixation on earning Richard's approval and praise.

I used to loathe everything about this man. His outdated views, his casual misogyny, the entitled way he swaggered around the office like he owned the place. He represented everything I despised in the "old boys club" of engineering.

Now though, I find myself hanging on his every word, laughing a little too loudly at his sexist jokes, adjusting my appearance to cater to his preferences. Just yesterday, I caught myself in the bathroom mirror, applying the red lipstick he once commented that he liked on women. I don't even wear lipstick normally, much less for a man, and most of all, not for this man.

What the hell is happening to me?

It's not just the small things either. In our conversations, I've started to defer to his opinions, even on topics where I'm clearly more knowledgeable. I bite my tongue when he says something ignorant or offensive, forcing a smile instead of calling him out like I used to.

I’m exceedingly… agreeable with him.

Richard, for his part, seems to be slowly catching on to the changes in my behavior. At first, he just seemed mildly puzzled, probably chalking it up to our shared secret creating a bond between us. But as the weeks go by, I see a new gleam in his eye when he looks at me. A mixture of curiosity and… something else.

The things he says…

If this were any other man, I’d say that he’s testing the waters and pushing the envelope, seeing if I’ll react, but the truth is, Richard is a caveman by vocation when it comes to gender issues. He says sexist stuff all the time, the frequency of his remarks hasn’t really increased or changed.

What has unfortunately, undeniably, ominously changed is my reaction to those statements. And there are so many of them.

Offhand comments about how much prettier I look when I smile. How I'd be even more attractive if I wore my hair down instead of in my usual practical ponytail. Just the other day, he made a crack about women being better suited for secretarial work than engineering.

One evening, in the lab, he leans back in his chair and tells me, "You’ve come a long way, Zara. You’re not the same stubborn uppity girl you were when we started. You’ve really softened up."

I freeze, my smile faltering. Did he just call me 'uppity'? The old Zara would have torn him a new one for that kind of blatantly sexist language. Instead, I just laugh it off, twirling a strand of hair around my finger. Wait, since when do I twirl my hair?

Unfortunately, the way his eyes focus on my hair while I do it tell me that he’s asking himself exactly the same question. I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he reassesses the situation.

Fuck. This is bad.

"You know, Zara, I have to say… you've changed quite a bit since we started this little experiment."

I feel a flicker of panic. He's noticed. Of course he's noticed. How could he not?

I try to play it off with a casual shrug. "Well, spending so much time together, it's only natural that we'd start to rub off on each other a bit, right?" I cringe inwardly at the unintended innuendo.

But Richard isn't buying it. He leans forward, his gaze boring into mine. "It's more than that though, isn't it? The way you've been dressing, the way you've been acting around me… it's like you're trying to impress me or something."

I feel my face flush hot with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation. How dare he call me out like this? And yet... isn't he right? Haven't I been twisting myself into knots trying to win his approval lately?

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say stiffly, but my voice wavers.

I waver.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "That's ridiculous," I add, but my voice sounds weak even to my own ears. "I'm not trying to impress anyone, least of all you."

Richard leans back in his chair, looking pensive. "Is that so? Then I suppose you won't mind if we put that to the test."

I narrow my eyes at him. "What do you mean?"

"It's simple, really. If you're not being influenced by the device to seek my approval, then you should have no problem refusing to follow a few simple instructions that have nothing to do with learning German."

I feel a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach.

"Why the hell would you even want to test that?"

"What do you mean, why?" He asks, shaking his head. "I strongly suspect that the prototype has conditioned you to positively respond to my approval, as your designated trainer, even outside the boundaries of what you’re supposed to be learning."

I shake my head vehemently. "That's groundless. The device is designed for learning enhancement, it doesn't work like that."

"The BIP manipulates incentives," Richard says, steepling his fingers. "How is that not behavioural modification?"

I open my mouth to retort. No word comes out. I… have no response to that right now.

"Fine," I say at last instead, crossing my arms over my chest. "Let’s test if you’re right. What did you have in mind?"

"First," he says, holding up a finger, "I want you to start acting more deferential towards me. No more of your old stubborn, confrontational attitude. Not that you’re displaying it much these days, but let’s wipe that particular slate clean. You will treat me with the respect befitting my senior position."

I bristle at his words, but bite my tongue. I’ll at least let him finish. Besides, the tasks being outrageous works in my favor. I’ll have an easier time saying no to them.

"Second… you watch porn, right? Probably lesbian porn, I’m assuming? Give the other side of the aisle a fair shake. Watch some straight porn. Then we can discuss it together and see how it made you feel."

"What? No!" I say, and my body feels like it’s on fire with outrage. How dare he? This fucking asshole. This is… inappropriate, sexual harassment, illegal, it’s…

I’ll just say no. That’s all I need to do. In fact, I simply need to not do any of that, and I’m in the clear. It’s designed to be provocative and absurd, but he can’t do anything to me. Not really.

And yet, I’ve been buying those stupid chips and peanuts every day. I’ve been wearing stockings every day. I started this ordeal being unable to do anything but just rage, and now it feels like I’m unable to do anything other than chase dopamine.

"See? This is why tests are so important, and why self-experimentation was a suboptimal idea," Richard says, smiling smugly. "Because if I’m right…"

I shrink back in my chair, my heart pounding.

"… We may have found a dire and critical flaw in your prototype, after all…"

TO BE CONTINUED