Chapter 2: Wanted
The streetlights buzzed like old neon signs. That low, electrical drone—barely audible — seeped into the air like a second skin, coating the sleepy streets of Eagle Rock. In the hills above Colorado Boulevard, surrounded by eucalyptus trees and sagging telephone wires, a blue-gray bungalow sat tucked between two overgrown yards. It was unremarkable by most standards: red-tiled roof, stucco walls, a patchy lawn. But inside, it was clean. Intentional. Lit by the warm amber glow of two floor lamps, with furniture that looked inherited rather than chosen. Every object had history. Nothing had been bought in the last year.
Chris stood in the kitchen doorway like a ghost with no destination. He rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the stovetop.
Maya moved with efficiency—slicing shallots, flipping salmon, pouring wine into mismatched glasses. She didn’t look up.
“How many today?” she asked.
Chris sighed. “Eight.”
“Applications or rejections?”
“Applications.”
“Right,” she said. “So... no interviews.”
Chris grunted and sank into a dining chair. He looked older than his forty-five years tonight. His beard was mostly gray now, bushy and unkempt, and his face sagged in places it hadn’t before. The ceiling fan above him clicked with a dull rhythm.
“I rewrote my resume again,” he offered, as if trying to prove something.
“Maybe stop rewriting it,” she said gently, plating the food. “It’s never going to get past those AI bots. You have to keep talking to people.”
“I know. But I’ve asked favors from everyone I know already.”
They ate in silence for a while. The salmon was a little overcooked, but neither of them mentioned it.
“I saw a posting that looked interesting for a job in Phoenix,” Chris said between bites, just to break the silence. “They’re building data centers everywhere.”
“Does it pay a lot?” Maya responded, going through the motions.
“Probably.”
Maya refilled their glasses. She studied him.
“You’ve been out of work for six months,” she said. “That’s long enough to admit this is breaking you.”
Chris didn’t flinch. He’d been bracing for it.
“It’s not just the work,” she added. “It’s you. You’re... disappearing.”
Chris looked up. His eyes were glassy.
“I’ve spent more than two decades doing good work,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter if firms can’t make their multiplier off you. And clients don’t care either—they just want things faster and cheaper, and they can get that from interns using AI. I’m just a middle-aged manager with nothing to offer except… I don’t even know.”
“You’re still a good architect,” Maya said.
“Not the right kind. I don’t design software.”
“I know. The world is being taken over by tech bros. We’re all fucked.”
She reached across the table and touched his hand. Her nails were short, chipped.
“But you need to believe in something again,” she said.
Chris pulled his hand away—not cruelly, just distant.
“I’ll find something,” he muttered. “Eventually.”
Chris waited another moment, then broke the silence again. “I’m really sorry. I’m going to help us recover—financially and mentally,” even though he didn’t believe himself.
“You don’t have to say that. Everything’s going to be okay,” Maya said, not sure she believed it either.
After dinner, Chris retreated back into his home office—a converted laundry room next to the garage. The space was small and cluttered but cozy, but it was starting to feel like a prison. An old school drafting table was set up in the corner. On the desk: an old MacBook, a Lego model of the Apollo lunar module, and a leather-bound sketchbook with half-finished sketches that looked more like mazes than buildings.
A few hours easily went by. He sketched out concepts of new building typologies, scrolled the internet, watched YouTube videos on the latest AI tools. He then got up, grabbed his yoga mat curled up in the corner, and unrolled it onto the floor.
He started his yoga practice, his usual nightly routine to clear his mind before bed. As he closed his eyes, they started to burn. He squeezed them more tightly, and tears started to well up. Suddenly he was crying uncontrollably.
Chris just sat there, crossed legged, his straight back slowly sinking into a curled over position. He felt tired, defeated, helpless.
The silence eventually became comforting. He wished it could go on forever if it meant avoiding another day like today, or the last six months.
He took three deep breaths, and continued his practice. Finally, he ended it lying on his back, body still, eyes closed.
He got up, rolled up his mat, and quietly returned it to the corner.
He walked over to his desk, clicked off the table lamp. Before closing his laptop for the night, he opened LinkedIn out of habit. The blue-white screen cast ghostlight across the room.
Nothing new.
He scrolled.
Then stopped.
There it was.
“Seeking empathic observer for important study. Must be adaptable and flexible. No resume required. Travel involved.”
No company listed. No job title. No contact info. Just a link to Quick Apply.
It screamed scam. Or worse. But something about the phrasing… “empathic observer”… “important study”...
Chris clicked.
The form was instantly auto-filled. Then a single question:
“Are you able to thrive in ambiguous situations?”
He hesitated. Then typed: “My future depends on it.”
He submitted the form.
Two minutes later, an email arrived.
—————
From: recruit@better.ai
Subject: Interview Instructions – Confidential
Body:
Dear Mr. Angle,
Thank you for your interest. You have been selected for an in-person interview. Please arrive at 16501 Saticoy Street in Van Nuys tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. A representative will meet you.
Further instructions will be provided onsite.
– BetterAI Recruitment
—————
Chris stared at the screen.
BetterAI.
Of course he’d heard of them. Everyone had. Sam Ratnam’s name came up every other day in the news and on social media. There were rumors the company was already testing AGI prototypes in controlled environments.
Chris sat back in his chair.
His mind immediately went to what it would look like to work at BetterAI. A pit formed in his stomach. He didn’t want more AI in his life, more complexity in his work. He didn’t become an Architect to work with intangible concepts.
He thought of Maya—how she would mock this kind of job. “Tech bros playing God,” she’d say.
But what if it was real?
What if someone actually wanted him—not for his resume, but for the way he thinks?
He caught himself. This was exactly the kind of mindfuck he had grown accustomed to dealing with everyday now. Being desperate does that to you.
And yet, somehow this was different.
He pasted the address into Google Maps, which took him to a location next to Van Nuys Airport. From Street View, it was a two-story office building that looked Art Deco in style, and unoccupied.
The clock ticked past midnight.
Outside, the power lines buzzed faintly. The hills of Eagle Rock shimmered under the moonlight.
And for the first time in months, Chris felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time:
A sliver of possibility.