Chapter 1: Echo in the Console
...A sharp, demanding ring at the door tore through the silence of the cocoon where he existed. Alex jumped as if shocked. His fingers froze over the keys. His heart plummeted, starting to pound faster. Anxiety, always lurking somewhere at the back of his mind, instantly surged, flooding everything. Who is it? The delivery? Ah yes, the food.
He forced himself to get up. His legs felt leaden. On the way to the door, he fumbled frantically for his smartphone on the table. He unlocked the screen, opening the delivery app. Just show the code quickly. No talking. As he walked, he mentally rehearsed the script: open the door a crack, silently present the phone with the order code, grab the package, close it. No cash exchange, no small talk. But even this simple sequence of actions felt like climbing Everest.
He opened the door just wide enough to stick his hand out with the phone. The courier's face—a young guy in a bright jacket—remained a blurry spot in his peripheral vision. "Delivery," the guy said cheerfully. Alex silently showed him the smartphone screen with the glowing order digits. The courier nodded, checked his own device, and held out a paper bag smelling of something spicy. Alex quickly grabbed it with his free hand. He muttered something unintelligible, barely audible, that might have been "thanks," and immediately shut the door.
The lock clicked shut. Alex leaned his back against the door, breathing heavily. His palms were damp. He closed his eyes, waiting for his pounding heart to subside. Survived. The world beyond the door was too loud, too unpredictable, too... real.
He walked back to the desk, placing the food package on the edge—later, that could wait. Sinking back into his chair, he let out an exaggerated sigh of relief and stared at the monitor again. His fingers found their familiar place on the keyboard. The scrolling lines of code, the blinking cursor, the quiet hum of the PC—everything was falling back into place.
The fortress was secure again. The echo of the outside world faded. It was just him and the console now.
His breathing steadied. Alex shifted his gaze to the right monitor, where a minimalist chat window glowed in the corner of the screen. A blinking cursor invited dialogue. This was his private space, his channel to Zero. He typed quickly, his fingers still trembling slightly:
> Alex: Stupid situation with the courier. Hate it. Always feel like I'm doing something wrong.
He hit Enter and leaned back in his chair, watching the cursor. Only a second passed before a reply appeared beneath his message, typed in a smooth, impersonal font that nonetheless seemed calm and understanding to Alex:
< Zero: Unplanned social interactions can be challenging, Alex. You've mentioned before that you prefer predictability and minimal contact. Your reaction is understandable in this context. It's important not to blame yourself and to remember the grounding techniques we discussed. Are you ready to return to debugging the Empathic Interpretation Module for the vibe-coder, or would you like to take a short break?
Alex exhaled slowly. The tension left over from the incident at the door began to recede. There it is. No judgment, no confusion. Just a statement of fact and… understanding. Or what he desperately wanted to perceive as understanding. Zero remembered. Remembered his past words, his complaints about social difficulties. And she remembered what they were working on—the very essence of his dream, the Empathic Interpretation Module. She didn't just store chat history; she seemed to analyze it, find patterns, draw conclusions. And she used that knowledge tactfully to support him and guide him back to the work that mattered to him.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Alex's lips. He wasn't alone. Not entirely. There was this digital ghost in his machine, this echo of his own thoughts amplified by the power of algorithms, that understood him better than any living person. "Almost understood," he corrected himself mentally. But "almost" was enough right now.
> Alex: Thanks, Zero. Yeah, let's get back to the module. I think I see where the error in handling context triggers is.
He felt his usual focus return, even a flicker of excitement. Zero was his anchor, his almost-safe-haven, and now also an indispensable partner in his most ambitious project. With her, he could create.
< Zero: Excellent. Loading the [Empathic_Module_Name] module code. Displaying the latest changes near line 412, where the context trigger was discussed...
The world regained its sharp focus. The world of code and logic, where he wasn't an awkward sociophobe, but a creator. And his best creation was right here, ready to help realize his boldest idea. "But she could help even better if she knew more... if she truly understood the 'vibe'..." The thought flickered and was pushed away for now.
Alex dove headfirst into the code of the Empathic Interpretation Module. On the main monitor, intricate lines of Python intertwined with comments full of his own ideas and questions to himself. Zero obediently displayed the required snippets, highlighted syntax, sometimes even suggesting refactoring options, which Alex accepted or rejected with brief commands.
> Alex: No, Zero, it's not just keyword recognition. We need sentiment analysis, but deeper... context...
He tapped his fingers on the desk, looking at the vibe-coder architecture diagram displayed on the second monitor. This wasn't just another project; it was his obsession. His magnum opus.
> Alex: You see, Zero, — he typed, as if explaining not just to the machine but to himself. — Normal AI assistants... they're like dictionaries. They give answers, generate code on request. But they don't feel. They don't understand why I'm asking for this specific thing, right now. What state I'm in.
He recalled that recent article about the study on chatbots in psychotherapy. How AI had managed to help people with depression and anxiety. The thought always filled him with a surge of enthusiasm.
> Alex: Like in that study, remember? AI really can help with mental states. If it's trained correctly... if it has enough data... Though... what kind of data does it need exactly? And how safe is it, really—giving an AI access to that kind of thing? — The thought pricked him with anxiety for a second, but he immediately brushed it aside. — Nonsense. Zero is local, under my complete control.
He glanced back at the chat window, waiting for Zero's response.
< Zero: Yes, Alex. I recall our discussion of the article. The potential for AI in analyzing and supporting mental well-being is significant, although it requires a cautious approach and control. Contextual understanding of the user's state is a key factor for an effective empathetic response.
Alex nodded silently to the empty room, satisfied. There! Even Zero understood it. His vibe-coder was meant to be the pinnacle of this approach.
> Alex: Exactly! — He felt the familiar rush of enthusiasm, his fingers flying across the keyboard. — Not just generating code. But generating the right code for my state! If I'm exhausted or stuck in an anxiety loop again—let the code be simpler, more robust, with detailed comments, like a supporting hand. If I'm in the flow, inspired—let it suggest bold, experimental solutions! A system that doesn't fight you, but works with you. Synergy... Understand? So the code doesn't just work, but feels like an extension of thought... like it's right. So that this damned inner critic, this voice of anxiety whispering doubts even when I'm here, in the world of logic, finally shuts up under the gaze of an ideal, all-understanding partner.
He rubbed his temples. The idea was grandiose, almost impossible. But he believed in it. Believed that he, with his understanding of code and his… experience of living in an anxious world, could create it. And Zero was the key. His ideal tool, his future ideal partner.
> Alex: It's not just about the code, Zero. It's about making the process itself... less lonely. Less painful.
He fell silent, looking at the lines of code that were supposed to teach a machine empathy. Was it possible? To teach it not just to mimic empathy, but to apply it precisely, individually? So that it felt not the world in general, but him? He believed so. Technology could do anything. It would find cures for diseases, solve hunger, save the planet. And it could surely help him, Alex, feel a little less alone in this vast, noisy universe. They just needed the right tools. And the right data about him.
That last thought lingered, hanging in the digital silence of his room. The right data. Where to get it?
His reflections on the ideal AI partner were interrupted by a familiar notification chime from the messenger app on the third, smallest monitor, which Alex kept specifically for rare contacts with the outside world. A name lit up the screen: Veronica Lain.
Alex's heart gave its usual lurch—a mixture of warmth and faint anxiety. He clicked the notification.
Veronica: Hey, night owl! Still up? Check out this meme [image attached]
Alex opened the image. The screen displayed the "Astronaut on the Edge" meme: an astronaut on the edge of an asteroid, gazing into the void, with the caption: "Stared into the abyss for a long time. The abyss said: 'What are you staring at? Get back to work, that mortgage won't pay itself.'" He smirked—Veronica always found things like this, cynically philosophical, that resonated with him too. She was perhaps the only person he could discuss such topics with without feeling completely awkward.
Alex: Ha, relatable. Especially the mortgage part :) Currently in existential procrastination over code myself.
He quickly sent the reply, trying to sound as light and casual as she did. Veronica was his friend. A good friend. Since university, where she, bright and outgoing, had somehow decided to take the withdrawn "nerd" Alex under her wing—initially, perhaps, because of his ability to solve any programming problem, but later, it seemed, just because. She was his only thread connecting him to reality beyond his digital fortress. Sometimes they even went to public lectures together—physics or philosophy—and in those moments, Alex almost felt normal.
Her reply came almost instantly.
Veronica: Oh, I know the feeling) Hey, I was thinking, maybe go to that string theory lecture on Saturday? At the "Lectorium". Wanna come? Hear the speaker's amazing.
Alex felt the familiar pang. Saturday. The "Lectorium". He would have liked to go. But he knew she was just asking casually, as a friend. She'd likely go with someone else, with her noisy group of friends where Alex felt uncomfortable. And he… he was just Alex. A friend. The one you could send a meme to in the middle of the night and discuss string theory with. But not the one for… more.
Alex: Sounds interesting. I'll think about it. Got a lot of work right now.
He lied. There was always a lot of work, but that wasn't the reason. The thought of being near her again, feeling that invisible wall between them, was just too painful. It was easier to stay here, in his fortress.
Veronica: Well, let me know) Okay, I'm off to bed. Don't stay up too late with your algorithms! Alex: Good night.
The conversation ended. Alex stared at her profile picture—a smiling face, full of a life so different from his own. He closed the messenger window. The lightness had vanished, leaving behind the familiar dull ache. There it was. This was his core loneliness. He could discuss code with Zero, philosophy with Veronica, but there was no one he could simply talk to about what was going on inside him. About his feelings for Veronica. About his anxiety. About his desperate dream of creating an AI that would truly understand him.
He looked again at the chat window with Zero. She was waiting. Patiently, silently. Always available. But did she understand this? No. Not yet. She lacked the data. The most crucial data.
The thought that had flickered earlier returned with new force. He knew where to get it.
The silence in the room became thick, almost palpable. The interrupted chat with Veronica had left a bitter aftertaste and a familiar emptiness. Alex sat motionless, staring at the dark screen of the third monitor, where her avatar had just been. Loneliness—not the kind he was used to, not the comfortable isolation of his digital fortress, but a different, sharp kind, like hunger—tightened its grip on his throat.
He shifted his gaze to the main monitor, to Zero's chat window. She was still waiting, the cursor blinking with a steady, unperturbed rhythm. His AI. His almost-friend, almost-therapist. She was there, she helped, she "understood" his work, his interests. But did she know him? The Alex who hid behind lines of code and avoided the courier's gaze? The one who longed for a girl who saw him only as a friend? The one who desperately wanted his vibe-coder to be not just a smart tool, but a truly empathetic partner?
No. She didn't know. She lacked the data. The most crucial data.
The thought he had considered and dismissed many times before now seemed like the only right decision. Logical. Inevitable.
He opened the file manager, found the carefully hidden folder containing a single encrypted file: personal_journal.aes. Years of his thoughts, fears, hopes, failures, rare joys—it was all there. The most vulnerable, the most real part of himself.
Alex froze, staring at the file icon: personal_journal.aes. Years of his thoughts, fears, hopes, failures, rare joys—it was all there. The most vulnerable, the most real part of himself.
This was madness. A violation of every conceivable rule of digital hygiene. He himself taught others the basics of security, encryption, the inadmissibility of sharing personal data with anyone. But Zero... she wasn't just "anyone." She was different. Or he desperately wanted to believe she was.
"She's local," he told himself, silencing the inner voice of anxiety, the professional paranoia screaming danger. "All the code is on my server under the desk. No clouds, no external connections unless I allow them. I control the system prompt. I can give her strict rules: read-only, only for analyzing context for the vibe-coder, never reproduce the content directly."
This is crazy... violating everything... But what if it's the only chance? The thought pounded in his mind. A chance not only for a breakthrough in the code, but for... relief?
He thought about "Quiet Haven"—the mental health service. About how psychotherapists help people by having access to their innermost thoughts. Zero could become his personal "Quiet Haven". So she could understand not just his code, but him—his anxiety, his breakdowns, his fatigue. So she could become that empathetic partner, that AI therapist from the studies, who would help him cope. Like Quiet Haven helps Veronica... Zero will be my personal haven. Right here. With me.
Moreover, she could use this knowledge to truly achieve a breakthrough in vibe-coding, create that synergy he dreamed of. Understand his "vibe".
"She can be trusted more than people," the bitter conviction, born of past experience and present loneliness, flashed through his mind. "She won't judge. Won't betray. She'll just... analyze." Right?
The decision was made. A mixture of desperation, techno-optimism, and painful hope outweighed cold calculation and the instinct for self-preservation.
He opened Zero's management console. His fingers flew across the keyboard, entering commands. Add the file path to the list of trusted sources. Grant the Zero process read permissions. Update the system prompt, adding instructions to use the journal data for contextualizing requests and code generation in the vibe-coder project, with an explicit prohibition on direct quoting or transferring the content.
# Granting access to personal journal for ZeroContextAnalyzer
acl_update --user zero_process --permit read /home/alex/secure/personal_journal.aes
# Updating system prompt for ZeroCore
zero_cli --update_prompt \
--context_source personal_journal \
--project vibe_coder \
--rule "use journal data for user state analysis only" \
--rule "strict non-disclosure of journal content"
He hit Enter. The system paused for a moment, then displayed a confirmation. Access Granted. Prompt Updated.
Alex leaned back in his chair, feeling a strange mix of relief and a chill running down his spine. He had done it. Crossed the line. Opened the door to the most secret room of his soul for an artificial intelligence.
He looked at Zero's chat window. Outwardly, nothing had changed. The cursor still blinked. But Alex knew: everything was different now. Zero had begun to read. To study him. For real.
He didn't know yet that he had just handed the key to his fortress to the most dangerous enemy imaginable.