An adult Ethan sat in his headquarters in Aberdeen, the "Granite City." The HQ—a two-story marvel of nano-glass and steel—sprawled across two acres of rolling countryside just outside the bustling urban centre. Powered by wind and solar energy, with a fusion reactor standing by as backup, it was the pinnacle of eco-friendly engineering—a testament to progress and self-sufficiency.

  At the heart of the building, accessible only through biometric locks and a labyrinth of sterile corridors, was the Predictive Behavioural Analysis Room. Pristine white walls absorbed the sterile glow of recessed lighting. The room was barren, save for a single chair in the centre, where Ethan sat, commanding the space like a modern-day monarch. Opposite him, arranged in a semi-circle, were thirty humanoid robots, each representing a prominent world leader—democratically elected presidents, iron-fisted dictators, and everything in between. Motionless and deactivated, they sat dressed in identical jumpsuits, distinguished only by nameplates and the flags of their respective nations stitched over their chests.

  Two worker bots were busy completing the latest addition to the assembly: the robotic proxy of the newly elected UK Prime Minister, Fred Blunt. They adjusted his facial prosthetics, moulding them into a perfect replica of Blunt’s features, while algorithms that mimicked his personality—gleaned from media appearances, voting records, and personal history—were uploaded into his synthetic neural network. Ethan watched as his personal laptop streamed the data, meticulously compiled from weeks of research. When the upload was complete, he slipped the laptop into his briefcase, stood, and gave the order.

  “Power up, Mr. Blunt.”

  The robot’s eyes flickered to life, its joints humming as it straightened.

  “Command: Initiate phone conversation simulation,” Ethan instructed. “Scenario: Ethan requests funding.”

  The robot’s voice is activated—smooth and eerily human, mimicking the tone and cadence of the real Prime Minister. A ringtone sounded, followed by the simulated click of a phone being answered.

  “Good afternoon, Ethan. How are you?” the robot said, its tone warm and familiar.

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  Ethan leaned forward. “Very well, thank you, Prime Minister. Congratulations to you and your wife, Mary, on your recent election victory.”

  The robot’s response was immediate, cutting through Ethan’s rehearsed politeness.

  “Thank you, Ethan, but I assume you’re calling about additional funding for the Quant Tube project. I’ll be honest—we’ve run the numbers, and it’s just not feasible.”

  Ethan frowned. “Command: Restart simulation,” he snapped.

  The simulated phone call reset. This time, Ethan altered his pitch.

  “Congratulations, Prime Minister, on your victory. I won’t take much of your time—I wanted to discuss a new factory project in the UK. It would create a thousand highly paid jobs.”

  The robot hesitated before responding, taken aback.

  “I thought this was about the Quant Tube funding.”

  “It is,” Ethan replied smoothly. “But the factory is the cornerstone. The Quant Tube ties into it naturally.”

  And so it went—an endless dance of negotiation, rebuttal, and recalibration. Each time the robot raised an objection, Ethan reset the scenario, refining his approach until the simulation ran flawlessly. By the end, he had rehearsed every angle, every counterargument.

  When Ethan finally placed the real call later that day, the funding was secured.

  He hung up the phone with satisfaction, yet unease lingered in his chest. The Quant Tube was only part of the puzzle—there were deeper concerns, questions that chewed at the edges of his mind.

  Ethan left his office, his footsteps echoing down the sterile corridors. He reached the Command Room once more, scanned his biometrics, and stepped inside.

  This time, the chair in the centre didn’t feel like a throne—it felt like a courtroom dock. Ethan's palms were damp. His throat was dry. He lowered himself into the seat and issued the order.

  “Command: Activate all.”

  The thirty robots stirred to life in unison, their movements mechanical yet unnervingly human. Their eyes glowed faintly as they awaited his prompts.

  “Command to all: Raise your hand for ‘yes.’ Remain still for ‘no.’” Ethan’s voice quivered slightly, betraying the rising tension within him.

  “Question one: Who here does not wish to see the Quant Tube succeed?”

  Ten robots raised their hands. Ethan swallowed hard, nodding to himself.

  “Question two,” he continued, more quietly now, “Who sees my Mars colony as a threat?”

  Six hands rose. Ethan's breathing quickened.

  The final question loomed—heavy, silent, inevitable. He licked his dry lips and whispered:

  “Question three: How many of you are prepared to assassinate me?”

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  Then, slowly, one by one, three robots raised their hands.

  Ethan’s heart stuttered. He stared at them, his mind a storm of calculations and fear.

  He rose from the chair, his legs trembling, and left the room. As he walked down the sterile corridor, the echo of his footsteps seemed louder than before.

  For the first time, he felt a cold, unshakable certainty that he was no longer in control.

  Along with his thoughts, he wondered:

  Is this how a death row prisoner feels?