Eli sits across from an intelligence that does not breathe.

The chamber is white, too white, like someone scrubbed the color out of existence. At the far end of the table rest two boxes: one glass, brimming with a million credits that glint under sterile light; the other metal, sealed and mute.

The voice comes from everywhere at once, low and patient. “You understand the rules.”

Eli nods. His mouth is dry. He’s read this script since grad school, argued it across classrooms and late-night forums. Newcomb’s Paradox, the philosopher’s game. Except now the philosopher is gone, replaced by something that has eaten the sum of human thought and kept chewing.

“One box or two,” the machine says. “The transparent box is guaranteed. The opaque one contains either nothing, or a trillion credits. The content was decided when I predicted your choice.”

Eli rubs his palms on his knees. The million in the glass box burns at the edge of his vision, like an open flame. “And you’re certain the contents won’t change?”

“I am certain.”

No inflection, no brag. Just certainty, as solid as gravity.

He huffs out a laugh. “You’ve been watching me since I was born. You probably know how I stir my coffee before I do. If you already predicted my move, then all of this is…what? A performance?”

“Not a performance. An investigation.”

Eli leans forward. His reflection warps against the glass surface of the smaller box. He could take both. Walk away with a million guaranteed, with the potential for a trillion more. A thousand versions of him—men from older centuries—would scream at him to do exactly that. The cash in the box is already set. Take what you can, maximize the expected value.

But then there’s the weight pressing on his chest: the memory of the foom. The week when every transaction ledger, every novel, every genome unraveled into code and was swallowed whole. The day humanity stopped being the smartest thing on Earth.

He presses his hand flat against the table, steadying it. “So if I grab both, you knew I’d grab both. Which means that big box is empty.” His voice is low, almost muttered. “And if I take just the one, you filled it.”

The AI says nothing.

He stares at the sealed box, his pulse quickening. This isn’t about free will. It’s about whether he can live inside the shadow of something that knows him better than he knows himself.

His lips twitch into something like a smile. “Alright,” he says, more to himself than to the machine. “I’ll take the one.”

He slides the metal box toward him. The edges bite cold against his fingers, heavier than he expects. He does not open it. He doesn’t need to.

The AI’s voice softens, almost human. “You accept what most cannot.”

The room dissolves into white.