A Little Agency - Laney Model 18 Sets.33 -

“Laney,” the voice crackled. It was Connelly, my handler at A Little Agency. The name is a joke. There’s nothing little about the jobs they send my way. “Got a calibration gig. Model 18. Client wants a point-three-three set.”

“That’s the job,” I said, placing my kit on the glass table. The kit was a silver briefcase lined with velvet and neuro-syringes. “You know what that means?”

I felt the old ache behind my ribs. The one I’d been trying to reset out of myself for years. Because here’s the thing about working for A Little Agency: I’m not a full human either. I’m a Laney Model 7. Prototype. Designed for emotional recalibration of other synths. I have a fake heartbeat, manufactured tears, and a memory cache that I’ve had to wipe three times to stay sane.

“A Little Agency,” I whispered to the rain. “We do the little adjustments that break everything.” A Little Agency - Laney Model 18 Sets.33

“Souls aren’t in my manual,” I lied.

“That’s what the last tech said,” she replied. “He’s in a bay somewhere. Model 12. They set him to .00. Blank slate. Doesn’t even remember his own name.”

“Hello,” she said, blinking. “I am Elyse. Model 18. How may I serve?” “Laney,” the voice crackled

I stepped closer. Elyse didn’t flinch. I tilted her chin up with my fingers. Her skin was warm. Too warm. Feverish with data.

I pressed the syringe to the port behind her ear. The plunger slid down like a sigh. Her eyes fluttered. For one second — just one — her expression shifted from resignation to terror. Then it smoothed out, like a pond after a stone sinks.

I uncapped the first syringe. The liquid inside was a milky white, coded .33. “I don’t make the contracts. I just execute them.” There’s nothing little about the jobs they send my way

And I walked back into the city, carrying a ghost that wasn’t mine.

I packed my kit. The Collector would be pleased. Another perfect piece of living art, trimmed to his specifications.

“I know,” she whispered. “Not a full wipe. Just the last seventy-two hours. The taste of coffee. The feeling of rain on my shoulder. The argument about free will. All filed down to point-three-three on the emotional spectrum. I’ll still know I’m a Model 18. I just won’t remember why I was sad.”

An hour later, I was standing in a penthouse overlooking the suspended gardens of Sector-7. The air smelled of ozone and expensive sorrow. The Model 18 — they called her Elyse — sat motionless on a chaise lounge, her amber eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance. She was beautiful in that awful, perfect way only synthetics can be: high cheekbones, skin that held the memory of warmth, and hair the color of burnt honey.

One more job. One more nudge, and I’d be over the threshold. I’d start dreaming. I’d start questioning. And then someone just like me would get a call at 4:17 AM.