The Existential Scoreboard

This is the first chapter of a five-part literary story.
If something inside you stirs while reading, you may continue deeper.
The full story is waiting when you’re ready.

Chapter 1: Everything in Its Place

Ansel woke at six-oh-one.

Not six. Not six-oh-five. His circadian rhythm, once trained and trimmed like a bonsai, now performed with the precision of a concert pianist.

The smart shades peeled open in smooth silence, unveiling a cloudless morning over the city. His home—white, gray, unobtrusively luxurious—lit itself in tiers, as if waking alongside him.

The mirror greeted him with yesterday’s metrics: heart rate, hydration, REM depth. All within optimal range. He nodded, blankly pleased. He looked good. Fit. Measured. Maintainable.

Coffee brewed with a sound like rainfall. It was the exact temperature he preferred: ninety-three degrees Celsius. No cream. No sugar. No clutter.

He stood at the wide window, watching the city stir awake. From this height, the world looked manageable. Efficient. Below, people moved like data points. Every one of them chasing something.

He should’ve felt proud. He had followed the script. Graduated with honors. Built the right company. Chosen the partner with the right pedigree. Made all the “smart” moves. His name meant something now. His bank account hummed with passive income. His calendar was a work of art.

And yet… there it was again. That quiet hum beneath the surface. The one he couldn’t track, couldn’t measure. A soft, sinking ache.

A question without language.

—

Ansel’s morning block was dedicated to “focus work”—deep cognitive tasks. He slipped into his study, the door sealing with a gentle hiss. A soft chime confirmed the world had been muted.

Three hours of strategic analysis, proposal reviews, voice memos to his assistant, all completed without interruption. The AI dashboard congratulated him on hitting ninety-four percent productivity—six percent above global average.

He felt nothing.

At eleven, he met with his advisor, a sharply dressed man who spoke in quarterly horizons and digital asset trends. They discussed expansion, risk, reputation. The advisor smiled often. Ansel mirrored it. He was very good at smiling.

Lunch was a nutritionally perfect bowl of something warm and beige. He ate while reading the WorldMind Digest, eyes scanning summaries of geopolitical shifts and artificial consciousness debates. One article suggested emotions were soon to be obsolete. He bookmarked it.

In the afternoon, he recorded a podcast episode—his voice smooth, calibrated, reassuring. “Success,” he said, “is the result of consistency, clarity, and control.”

He meant it. Or at least, he used to.

By six p.m., he was alone again, back at the window. The sky was violet. The buildings glowed like polished teeth.

His reflection hovered in the glass. Neatly groomed. Unbothered. Entirely intact.

And yet.

Still, that hum.

—

He finished his dinner precisely—fourteen minutes, fork laid down in the same place on the table as always. Dishes cleaned by the quiet hum of the home system. Nothing left out. Nothing left behind.

Then, just before the lights dimmed for evening mode, Ansel did the one thing his daily planner didn’t include.

He walked to the back of the apartment—past the rooms the AI thought he didn’t use—and opened a narrow drawer beneath the shelving unit. Inside was an old set of over-ear headphones. Not the sleek new kind. Heavy, padded, analog.

He put them on like a ritual, like something sacred. And from the drawer, he pulled the device. Small. Matte black. Unconnected. Undiscoverable.

He pressed play.

A woman’s voice rose into his ears—wild and ancient, layered with animal sounds and windsong. At first, it was just breath and tone, the high cry of something winged. Then a low hum joined it—earthbound, throat-born, like a reindeer dreaming. It didn’t have words. It didn’t need them.

The melody spiraled like smoke, somewhere between grief and reverence, between a lullaby and a warning.

Ansel closed his eyes.

And for four minutes and thirty-six seconds, he was no one.

No title, no performance, no script.

Just listening.

Just feeling.

Maybe it counted more than anything else.