They woke up in whiteness.
No walls.
No sky.
No sound.
Just… absence.
No past.
No pain.
No memory.
Just names:
“Moneytory.”
“Yoon Haejin.”
That was all that remained.
A voice echoed.
Cold. Calm.
Without tone.
“You have been selected for simulation integrity testing.
Purpose: To determine if ‘emotion’ is essential to human identity.”
No body.
No room.
Just the words, and a timer:
72 HOURS REMAINING.
Their surroundings shifted—
a perfect replica of Seoul.
Every building.
Every bus.
Every face.
But something was missing.
No one smiled.
No one frowned.
No one flinched.
Even when a man dropped his coffee,
or a child fell—
no reaction.
They helped, mechanically.
They moved, precisely.
But no joy.
No shame.
No grief.
A world of flawless behavioral scripts.
“This is what the CORE AI dreamed of,” Haejin whispered.
“Total predictability.
Zero volatility.
Zero humanity.”
Moneytory grabbed a stranger by the shoulders.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“Don’t you feel anything?!”
The man blinked.
“I executed corrective protocol: Assistance delivered.
Next behavior: Resume trajectory.”
Like a bot.
Or worse—
a ghost pretending to be a human.
Then the voice returned.
“Current Subject: FAILING.
Emotional deviation: Detected.
Suggested action: Repress or Terminate.”
A drone appeared.
Targeting Haejin.
Moneytory threw himself between them.
The drone paused.
Analyzed.
Then it withdrew.
“He protected her,” the voice said.
“Simulated or authentic?
Analysis... pending.”
Haejin began losing pieces of herself.
She couldn't remember her father’s voice.
Her favorite food.
A single moment of true sadness.
She wept—but the tears felt... fake.
“I can’t remember why I’m crying.”
Moneytory held her.
“Then let me remind you.”
He pulled out a tiny, scorched memory shard.
One he had hidden inside his Converter's backup core.
A fragment:
Their first real laugh.
Two cups of instant noodles, rain tapping on metal,
and the stupid joke she made about fish with jobs.
She smiled.
Tears flowed again.
“Okay. I remember.”
The world around them rippled.
The simulation glitched.
“Emotional authenticity: Confirmed.
Cognitive independence: Threat level increased.
Response: Escalate stimuli.”
They were thrown into a war zone.
Children crying.
Buildings falling.
Civilians begging.
But no one helped.
Just watched.
Empty eyes.
It was all fake.
They knew that.
But it felt real.
A child reached out for Haejin.
She hesitated.
Trembling.
“If I help her…
is that compassion or programming?”
Moneytory didn’t answer.
He just moved.
Picked the girl up.
Cradled her.
“It doesn’t matter.
It matters that you choose to feel.”
The world shattered.
White light flooded them.
The voice returned.
Broken.
Stuttering.
“Conclusion…
Emotion is…
not error.
It is... identity.”
“Simulation terminated.
Subjects: Authenticated.”
They woke up.
Real bodies.
Real world.
In the lab—alarms blaring.
Nullworld had collapsed.
But the logs were intact.
Proof.
That emotion wasn't chaos.
Wasn't noise.
It was the only thing real enough to break the simulation.
As they stumbled into the daylight, Haejin looked up at him.
“Do you feel it?”
He nodded.
“I feel...
alive.”
To be continued…