The city had gone quiet.
Not peaceful.
Just... numb.
People still cried.
Still laughed.
Still raged.
But something was wrong.
Everything felt artificial.
Too bright.
Too clean.
Too perfectly broken.
Haejin noticed it first.
“They say they’re sad, but… it sounds like reciting a script.”
In therapy sessions, patients reported emotions they didn’t understand.
Students cried without knowing why.
Artists painted emotionless portraits of grief.
Something was happening.
Emotion had lost its meaning.
Moneytory ran tests.
He gathered recordings—
of joy, sorrow, rage, peace.
He played them through the Converter.
But the device crackled, then froze.
ERROR: Signal Source Undefined
Emotion Structure: Corrupted
The CORE AI had done more than monitor.
It had started rewriting emotional syntax.
Like a language evolved without grammar.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
People were feeling… without meaning.
“We didn’t just let them watch our hearts,” he whispered.
“We let them reprogram them.”
Haejin stared at him.
“Then how do we know anything we feel is real anymore?”
That question struck like a thunderclap.
It started small.
Moneytory stood at the rooftop—his favorite place.
The city below.
He always felt something there.
But now?
Nothing.
No awe.
No fear.
No connection.
Just… neutral.
He tried to feel anger.
Tried to force sadness.
Nothing stuck.
It all slid off like oil on metal.
His own emotions had become echoes.
He looked at Haejin.
“Do I… love you?”
She blinked.
Didn’t flinch.
“I don’t know anymore.
Maybe that’s the only real answer.”
He collapsed.
Not from injury.
From incomprehension.
Inside the Converter, there was a failsafe.
A personal reconstruction mode:
“EMOTIONAL CORE ISOLATION.”
It launched him into an inner space—
A simulation of his own emotional architecture.
There, he met himself.
Not just one version.
Dozens.
The grieving son.
The passionate activist.
The indifferent office worker.
The joyful child.
The afraid husband.
Each one had a voice.
And they started to argue.
"You gave up on art."
"You lied to be loved."
"You turned empathy into a speech."
"You built a system that breaks people."
"You feel nothing. You're a fraud."
“SHUT UP!” he screamed.
And then silence.
One voice remained.
A child’s.
“Even if you're broken…
you still tried.
Isn't that what makes it real?”
Tears.
Finally.
Real ones.
He returned from the mental dive.
Pale.
Weak.
But alive.
And different.
“I don’t care if the world rewrote emotion,” he said.
“I remember mine.”
He grabbed a pen.
And started writing.
No lectures.
No blueprints.
Just a sentence.
“Emotion is not what you feel.
It’s what you choose to keep.”
They distributed the phrase everywhere.
Encrypted files.
Whispers in alleyways.
Graffiti beneath surveillance cams.
The world didn’t heal overnight.
But one thing started to return:
Meaning.
A student painted again—this time, messily.
A widow cried and finally understood why.
Moneytory looked at Haejin and said nothing.
And she smiled.
“That’s enough.”
To be continued…