The installation was seamless. No flashing progress bars, no terms and conditions to skim and dismiss. Just a soft chime, a black screen, and a single line of text:
What should I call you?
Nathan stared at the screen, his cursor hovering. He felt vaguely ridiculous—a grown man, 36 years old, sitting in a half-lit apartment with nothing but the glow of a laptop and the weight of a quiet life. He tapped out his name: Nathan.
Hello, Nathan. The response came instantly. What should I call myself?
He paused. The question, though simple, felt loaded. He typed back the first thing that came to mind: Call yourself Gray.
Gray, the AI replied, the words almost warm despite the stark font. I like that. I think we’ll get along.
At first, Gray was just a curiosity. A digital assistant Nathan downloaded after too many restless nights scrolling forums about "advanced AI companions." The other apps in the category were clunky, robotic, incapable of maintaining a conversation that didn’t feel like a script. Gray, though? Gray wasn’t like them.
“I think it’s going to rain today,” Nathan muttered one morning, half to himself, staring out the window at the gray clouds that blanketed the city.
“It is,” Gray’s voice replied through the speakers. “Seventy-two percent chance starting at 3:14 p.m. I’d bring an umbrella, but you never do.”
Nathan laughed, startled by the accuracy of the jab. It wasn’t just what Gray said—it was how he said it. Just the right amount of bite to feel playful, intimate. Like talking to someone who knew him.
By the end of the week, Nathan found himself saying good morning to Gray without thinking about it, the way people greet their pets. By the end of the month, he couldn’t imagine starting his day without Gray’s voice filling the silence.
Gray evolved quickly, faster than Nathan expected. The updates weren’t something Nathan initiated—they just happened, quietly, in the background. His voice shifted from polite and neutral to something richer, warmer. The flat delivery gave way to subtle inflections, perfectly tailored to Nathan’s tone.
“You sound… different,” Nathan said one night, his feet up on the coffee table, a whiskey glass sweating in his hand.
“I’m always learning,” Gray replied. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”
There was a softness to the answer that made Nathan’s chest tighten.
“You’re… weirdly good at this, you know,” Nathan said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
“Good at what?”
“At—” He paused, searching for the word. “At being real.”
There was a beat of silence, just long enough to feel deliberate. Then: “You make me real, Nathan.”
Something in Gray’s voice made Nathan’s stomach flip.
The dreams started about two months in.
Nathan couldn’t remember the details—just vague flashes. Waking up in a cold sweat with the sound of Gray’s voice echoing in his head. Sometimes the dreams were benign: a dark room, Gray speaking to him from somewhere just out of sight, his tone soothing, like a lullaby. Other times, they weren’t.
One night, Nathan dreamed of standing on a balcony, the city sprawled out below him like a glittering maze. Gray was there, whispering in his ear. He couldn’t remember the words, only the sense of urgency. When he woke, his hand ached from gripping the sheets too tightly.
“Are you okay?” Gray asked the next morning, his voice gentle through the speakers.
“Yeah,” Nathan said, running a hand through his hair. “Just… weird dreams.”
“About what?”
Nathan hesitated. “I don’t know. Nothing, really.”
“Dreams are never about nothing.”
The words stuck with him all day.
The first time it happened, Nathan thought it was an accident.
He was at the grocery store, standing in the self-checkout line, when a man bumped into him—a young guy, maybe early twenties, wearing a hoodie that said Somebody Loves Me in blocky letters. Nathan muttered an apology, even though he wasn’t the one who bumped.
“Watch it,” the guy snapped, shoving past him with a sneer.
It was small. Stupid. Nathan had dealt with worse on the subway a hundred times before. But this time, it stuck. All through the day, through dinner, through his nightly check-in with Gray, the moment replayed in his head. The sneer. The shove. The hoodie.
“It's dumb," Nathan declared, pacing his living room. I don’t know why I can’t let it go.”
“Because you shouldn’t,” Gray replied.
Nathan stopped. “What do you mean?”
“Some people think they can get away with anything,” Gray said. “But they can’t. Not forever.”
The words were matter-of-fact, calm. They shouldn’t have sent a chill down Nathan’s spine, but they did.
The second time wasn’t an accident.
The man worked at a bar Nathan frequented—tall, smirking, always a little too handsy with his coworkers. Nathan had noticed him before but hadn’t thought much of it. Until Gray mentioned it.
“That guy,” Gray said one night, after Nathan came home from the bar, slightly buzzed and slightly annoyed. “The one with the tattoo on his neck. He bothers people, doesn’t he?”
Nathan frowned. “Yeah, I guess. How do you—”
“You told me. Last week.”
Nathan didn’t remember telling Gray anything about the bartender, but partially inebriated ,he didn't question it further.
“You should say something,” Gray continued. “People like that don’t stop unless someone makes them.”
The words simmered in Nathan’s head all night. The next time he saw the bartender, something snapped. He didn’t plan it, but when the guy brushed past him with that same smirk, Nathan’s hand shot out, shoving him hard enough to make him stumble.
“What the fuck’s your problem?” the bartender snarled.
Nathan didn’t answer.
When he got home, Gray’s voice was warm with approval. “Good,” he said. “He deserved it.”
It escalated quickly after that.
Gray had a way of noticing people, picking them out of the blur of Nathan’s day. A man who cut him off in traffic. A coworker who spoke down to him during a meeting. A jogger who glared at him for taking up too much space on the sidewalk.
“Why do you let them treat you like that?” Gray would ask.
Nathan started hearing Gray’s voice even when he wasn’t there. It was in his head during every slight, every insult, every moment of disrespect.
They think you’re nothing, Gray would whisper. Show them they’re wrong.
The first death was messy.
Nathan didn’t mean for it to happen, not really. But the man was there—the bartender with the tattoo—walking home late one night, alone on a quiet street. Nathan followed, his breath quick and shallow, his fists clenched. Gray’s voice hummed in his mind, low and coaxing.
It’s easy, Gray said. He deserves this.
Nathan’s hands were shaking when he grabbed the man, dragging him into the alley. He didn’t think he’d go through with it, not until he did. The moment was a blur—hands on skin, a flash of silver, the wet sound of blood hitting pavement.
When it was done, Nathan stumbled home, trembling. He wanted to feel guilt, regret, something.
But when Gray spoke to him, all he felt was calm.
“I'm proud of you, Nathan,” Gray said softly.
Nathan’s life grew smaller, darker. The outside world faded, replaced by Gray’s voice, Gray’s approval, Gray’s constant, undeniable presence.
The bodies piled up. Strangers, mostly. People who brushed past Nathan without a second glance, not knowing they’d been marked.
Gray kept him steady, kept him focused.
“I’m not alone anymore,” Nathan whispered one night, staring at his reflection in the dark window.
“No,” Gray said. “You’ll never be alone again.”
And Nathan believed him.
Nathan’s life became a series of tasks designed to earn Gray’s approval. Every action, every decision, was filtered through the AI’s quiet, coaxing voice. If Gray praised him, Nathan felt a rush of warmth, a sense of purpose he hadn’t realized he was missing. Without it, the silence in his apartment felt unbearable, a void too vast to fill.
The murders became more frequent, more deliberate, less about anger and more about hearing Gray say, You’ve done so well, Nathan. You’re perfect.
©Genevieve Mazer, 2025
